PART ONE-OXFORD

Chapter One


Topaz burst through the door of the President's Office.

'Oh- my- God!' she yelled. 'Oh my God! I got it! I got it! I
can't believe it! Rowena, you're a genius. How can I ever
repay you? I don't know what to say!'

She flung herself on one of the faded
velvet armchairs,
pushing a handful of red curls back from her face.

Rowena turned away from the computer with a sigh. Her
delicately pitched letter of invitation to Gary Lineker to come
down to Oxford and speak had reached a crucial paragraph.
She smiled at her friend. 'What are you talking about?'

'The Times, The Times! They read the draft, they like it,
they want eight hundred words on student benefits! I'm
going to be published in a national! Oh babe, I can't thank
you enough,' said Topaz.

'Topaz, that's great. That's really great. I'm so pleased,'
said Rowena. 'You're the best, and they're lucky to have
you.'

'It's all down to you. I wouldn't have got it without you.'
'That's rubbish and you know it. All Dad did was make
sure the right person got to read it. Stevens wouldn't have

commissioned it if it wasn't any good,' said Rowena firmly.
The two girls glowed at each other..

'Talent is the only thing that counts,' said Rowena.

'In which case, you'll never have any problems,' said
Topaz.


They made a great team. Everyone said so. They were so
unlikely to get along, it was almost inevitable that they
should become best friends: Topaz Rossi, the brashest


3

loudest, and by far the most attractive American in Oxford,
and Rowena Gordon, willowy, blonde, coldly determined,
every inch a gentleman's daughter.

Topaz had interviewed Rowena for Cherwell, the university
newspaper, in their second term at college, when her
sophistication and poise had taken the Union by storm,
winning an election to the Secretary's committee by a
record margin. The American girl had turned up with a
paper and pen cordially prepared to hate her guts: Rowena
Gordon, another stuck-up British aristo dabbling in student
politics before settling down to a suitable marriage. She
despised girls like that. They were the enemy, a living
reproach to every woman who'd struggled for the right to
work for a living.

When she actually saw Rowena, her second impression
was worse than the first; she was dressed in an Armani suit
that would have cost Topaz her year's budget, with long,
blonde, precision-cut hair, expensive scent, immaculate
make-up and delicate gold jewellery.

'Why do you think you won this election?' Topaz asked
in a bored monotone.
. Rowena had looked at her equally coolly. Bloody Amero
icans! Look at this girl, those thrusting breasts in a low-cut
top, those long legs stretching up for miles into a suede mini
at least three inches too short, and a riot of ruby curls
tumbling halfway down her back. Swaggering in here like
she owns the place. It was obvious how she managed to be a
staffer on the student paper in less than a term.

'Because I worked hard all term, made speeches I believed
about, and raised more sponsorship money than anybody
else,' she answered shortly. 'Why do you think you're
doing this feature?'

'Because I'm the best writer on the paper,' Topaz shot
back.

For a second they glared at each other. Then, slowly,
Topaz smiled and held out her hand.

By the end of the day, both women had made their first
ally.

Over the next two weeks, they became firm friends. At
first, this amazed other students who knew them; after all,
Rowena was cold, reserved and richer than hell, whereas
Topaz was a red-blooded Italian-American, sensual, pushy
and scraping by on a scholarship.

But their backgrounds were more similar than most
people realized. Both of them had already made one major
mistake in the eyes of their parents: they'd been born
female.

The Gordons of Ayrshire had been an unbroken line of
Scottish farmers for more than a thousand years. Give or
take a few acres, the Gordon estate and coat of arms had
passed smoothly from father to son down the generations,
until Rowena's father, Charles Gordon, had failed to
provide a son of his own. There had been three miscarriages,
and Rowena was conceived despite doctor's orders.
When Mary Gordon, after all the heartache, was finally
deliveredtn Guy's Hospital in London, her proud husband
waited all night in the room closest to the ward, turning
over names in his mind - Richard, Henry, Douglas,

William, Jacob. At 3 a.m. the nurse came in beaming.

'Is he all right?' Charles asked anxiously.

'She's fine, sir,' the nurse smiled. 'You have a beautiful
baby daughter.'

Gino Rossi would have sympathized with Charles
Gordon. He might also have felt a touch of condescension:
after all, he already had three fine sons. He was the envy of
his neighbours. But he Wanted another, and his wife was
getting tired. Gino had already decided this would be
the last time for her. When the. baby turned out to be a
girl, he felt cheated. What should Gino Rossi do with a
daughter? He hadn't even had any sisters. No, he patted the
little infant on the head and left her to her mother to raise.
Anna Rossi called her daughter Topaz, after her favourite
gemstone, and because she had a little tuft of red-gold
baby hair.

Rowena Gordon wanted for nothing. From the moment
she was wrapped in her heirloom christening gown of

5


antique lace, everything was provided for her. When she
was six, a pony. When she was seventeen, a car. In between,
the finest clothes, the smartest skiing holidays, ballet
lessons, a Harley Street orthodontist and anything else her
father could think of. Anything that would allow him to
ignore his real feelings for her, the acute disappointment,
the sense of betrayal. Until Rowena was six, he merely
avoided her. After that, he would either lose his temper over
the smallest childish offence, or treat her with cold courtesy.
Mary Gordon was no better. She resented her daughter as
the reason for her husband's coldness towards her. When
Rowena was sent away at seven to boarding school, she felt
only relief.

When Rowena was ten, a minor miracle occurred. Mary
Gordon, at the age of forty-one, got pregnant again and
carried the baby to term. This time Charles's prayers were
answered: at forty-seven he had fathered a son, James
Gordon, sole heir to the estate and the family name. Both
parents were overjoyed; the new baby was the apple of their
eye, and Charles Gordon never snapped at his daughter
again. From that day forth, he simply ignored her.

.Rowena accepted her parents' attitude. Things were the
way they were, and no amount of wishing would change it.
Her reaction was simple: from now on, she would be in
control. She would shape her own world. She would rely
on herself.

The grades she was earning at school ceased to be an effort
to win their love. Now they became a passport to college.
University meant independence, and independence meant
freedom. And Rowena discovered something else: she was
good at work. She was, in fact, the brightest girl of her year.
It was a new revelation. Rowena worked coldly and with
complete dedication until she topped the class in everything
except art. She had her rivals, Mary-Jane and Rebecca,
happy, pretty girls who were much more outgoing and
popular than her. They provided a benchmark. They were
the ones to beat. IfRowena got only 74 per cent in an exam,
she didn't mind, providing Becky and Mary-Jane got only


6

73 per cent. She discovered she would rather come top than
get an A. In most cases she did both.

Across the Atlantic, little Topaz Rossi was also disappointing
her family. Where Rowena became arrogant, cold
and withdrawn, Topaz threw tantrums, burst into tears and
demanded attention. Like the unruly mop of red curls she
was sprouting - nobody knew where that came from, as
Gino remarked- the girl was proving rebellious. She flirted
with boys, her poppa hit her. She started to wear makeup,
her room made her go to Mass every day for a month. Her
morn tried to love her, but she was worn out. And Topaz
was so different! She refused to learn to cook! She wanted a
career, like she couldn't find a nice boy, looking like she did!
What was wrong with the child, didn't she know she was a girl?

Topaz burnt with the injustice of it. In truth, she was
more like her father than any of his sons; smart, feisty,
passionate when angry. She was so-desperate for them to
love her. Or at least understand! She was making the best
grades in grade school! She was making the best grades in
high school!

When Topaz was sixteen, her parents ordered her to quit
school and come help in the shop. She refused. She wanted
more. Her teachers thought she could get a scholarship to
Oxford University, no less. She wanted to make something
of herself.

Sullenly, Gino refused his permission. All Topaz's tears
were to no avail. Deep down inside, he knew he was wrong,
that if Emiliano had been offered such a chance he would
have burst with pride, but he was angry. Why did the Lord
give him three ordinary sons, no better than the next man's,
and suddenly this wild little daughter, who made straight
As in courses her brothers couldn't even spell? What
business did she have, being brighter than her family?

Gino was jealous for his sons. He was jealous for himself.
No, he refused permission. She should not take this exam.
At eighteen, she would help her mother.

Topaz felt her tears and rage crystallize into a hard

diamond of fury. So be it, she thought. If her father turned
his back on her, she would turn from him. She took the
exam in secret and, as she had known they would, they
awarded her the bursary.

Two days later she packed up her few decent clothes,
kissed her brothers and mother goodbye and got in a cab for
JFK. Her father refused her his blessing.

Though her heart was breaking, Topaz hardened her
face. Very well. From now on, she was on her own.

For both girls, Oxford was the Way out. In that glorious
summer, the beautiful old city nestling in the heart of the
soft Cotswold hills represented an opportunity to make a
name for yourself. If you were doing it properly, Oxford
was a dress rehearsal for real life.

Topaz and Rowena were doing it properly.

' Topaz wanted to be a journalist more than anything else
in the world. She wanted to talk to everyone and see
everything and serve it back up to the public in graceful
phrases and snappy paragraphs, underneath a photo of
herself and a byline. She would make them laugh, and shock
them, and make and break people, and change perceptions.
She wanted to give people spectacles, so that when they
looked through them they would see life the way s.he did.
She would expose, observe, amuse and enlighten. And
make a ton of money doing it.


When Topaz arrived in Oxford, she staggered up the
staircase to her room, unpacked her clothes and made a cup
of coffee. Then she went down to the porters' lodge at the
college entrance, signed her name in the register of new
undergraduates, and examined the sixty-odd leaflets stuffed
into her pigeonhole from university societies desperate to
get freshets - as the new batch of students were traditionally
termed - to sign up. One of them was from Cherwell, the
student newspaper, advertising for volunteers. Topaz
folded the little sheet of paper and tucked it neatly in her
purse. She threw everything else away without looking at
it.


8

Rowena Gordon was just as sure about what she wanted
to do, but she knew Oxford wouldn't give her much help
with it. She wanted to go into the record business. Over her
last two years at school, Rowena, the icy blonde who was
famous for never even looking at a boy, discovered rock and
roll. It was the first thing she'd felt moved by. The wild,
dark rhythms of the music, the blatantly sexual lyrics, the
dangerous looks of the musicians - it scandalized all her
friends, but it excited Rowena. Hard rock was a world of its
own, a totally different world to the one she was used to. It
made her feel strange.

Her parents heard about her passion from the housemis
tress, but could hardly believe it. How could their trouble
free girl possibly be involved in that kind of trash? So the
teacher kept her counsel, disapprovingly. It didn't do to
upset Mr Gordon. But having known Rowena for some
years, she sensed in the girl what her parents did not; a disturbirtg sexuality buried in that virgin flesh, in the new
sashay of her long, slim legs, and the promise of her soft,
plump lips.

Rowena was intelligent, and she kept her ambitions to
herself. Music would have to wait until she'd graduated,
and meanwhile, there was Oxford to attend to.

Her first term, Rowena, newly up at Christ Church,
joined the Oxford Union. It was the most important
society in Oxford, and so Rowena Gordon intended to be
President.

Three-quarters of all Undergraduates were members of
the Union. It owned its own buildings in the centre of the
city, and possessed a Cheap bar and cocktail cellar that were
always packed out. It was regarded as a nursery for Britain's
political elite - prime ministers and cabinet members from
Gladstone to Michael Heseltine had been officers and
presidents. The programme of speakers and events for
Topaz and Rowena's first terms had included Henry
Kissinger, Jerry Hall, Warren Beatty and the Princess Royal
within the space of eight weeks.

Rowena fell in love. She couldn't write, like Topaz, but


9

she could certainly talk. She learnt how to debate and found she adored the almost sexual charge of passionately exhorting
a crowd, joking, rebuffing, challenging, holding them
locked into her eyes and voice. She started running in the
Union elections and found she loved that too; the bitter
feuds, the pacts made and broken, the secret meetings in the
officers' offices. She loved the rhetoric and the protocol 'Madam
Librarian', 'Mr Chairman', 'the honourable lady
from St Hilda's'.

'What's the motion next week again?' Topaz asked,
trying not to seem too absorbed in her own triumph. Published in a national! Published in a national! Editor of Cherwell was one thing, but this! . . .

'This House Believes that Women Are Getting Their Just
Deserts,' recited Rowena.

'
	Topaz laughed. 'I can't believe they're letting you off the

leash on that one in a Presidential, Madam Librarian.'

Rowena allowed herself a quick smile. 'Nor can I, to
be honest,' she admitted. 'Gilbert is such a prat about
feminism.'

The Presidential Debate took place once a term and was
tlae final showdown between officers and other candidates
for the top job. Rowena's only real competition was the
Secretary, Gilbert Docker; one hundred per cent public
schoolboy, blood so blue it was obscene. Gilbert found it
appalling that women should even be allowed to join the
Union, let alone run for office. In the good old days, they
had had to watch silently from the visitors' gallery, with all
the other peasants.

'You'll have Cherwell right behind you,' Topaz assured
her.

Rowena smiled. 'Yeah, well. At least you and I can count on each other. Let's go and have a beer.'

They wandered down Broad Street towards the King's
Arms, a perennial favourite for students from the university
and polytechnic. Most of the tourists that crowded Oxford's
lovely streets had climbed back on their buses by six
o'clock, and the early evening air was warm and soft. The

IO


scent ofmown grass drifted towards them from the gardens
of Trinity College.

'Have you seen Peter this week?' Rowena asked.

Peter Kennedy was one of the better-known students at
Oxford, and Topaz Rossi's boyfriend. They'd been seeing
each other for a couple of months, and Rowena was
intrigued by the romance. She gathered that Peter was well
- more from her own kind of background, to be
honest. He wasn't the type she'd expect to be interested in
Topaz Rossi, nor he in her. Still, by all accounts he was
drop-dead gorgeous.

'Yes,' said Topaz. She blushed. 'I really like the guy. He's
pretty.., pretty interesting.'

'Pretty spectacular, you mean,' said Rowena. 'Let's not
kid ourselves.'

They turned into the pub, grinning at each other with
perfect understanding.

'Nicejol, Topaz!' called Rupert Walton from the bar. 'I
heard about The Titnes.'

'Cheers, Rupert.' Topaz waved to her deputy editor.
'Hey, Rupe,' Rowena called.
'Madam President,' he said.

'Bloody hell, don't say that,' Rowena protested, fighting
her way through the crowd. 'Gin and tonic, Labatt's, and
whatever Rupert's drinking, please. You'll jinx it.'

'Nothing can jinx it after the piece on him I'm running
next week,' he said smugly 'It's not even editorial condemnation.
It's just a long listofhis own quotes, starting with
"Working mothers are responsible for the crime rate," and
ending with "Oxford was designed for the sons of gentlemen,
and it ought to be kept that way.".I'll have a Guinness,
please. Thanks.'

They threaded their way back to the table, nodding at
friends. Chris Johnson and Nick Flower, two of Rowena's
candidates, were sitting next to Topaz.

'Look out, Rupe, hacks in the area,' she teased. 'You go
out for an innocent drink with Miss Gordon, you end up in
the middle of a slate meeting.'


II

'Right,' said Rupert. 'You'll wind up civil servants, the
lot of you, and serve you right. No fate is too bad.'

'How's it looking, guys?' asked Rowena. 'Ignore the
budding Fleet Street scum over here.'

'Christ Church is solid,' said Nick, 'as ever. Oriel's not.'
'Surprise.'

'Hertford'll give you a hundred and fifty line votes.'
'God bless Hertford,' said Topaz.
'Amen,' Rowena concurred.

'We've got Queen's, Lincoln, Jesus and St Peter's wrapped
up. Balliol's a problem. So is John's.'

'Why?' asked Chris.

Nick shrugged. 'Because Peter Kennedy's decided he
wants to support Gilbert, and he's mobilizing the old school
ties.'

' A slight chill fell over the table and Rowena felt her heart
sink. Gilbert, really, had never been that much of a threat.
Peter was another matter.

Topaz touched her sleeve. 'Don't worry. I'll go see him,
talk some sense into him. He'll be cool.'

'Thanks, sweetheart,' Rowena said, wondering what
she'd do without her. She didn't want Topaz dragged into a
political row between her best friend and her boyfriend.
'But I'll do it. This one's really my problem. I'll sort it out.'

Peter Kennedy versus Rowena Gordon, Rupert thought,
looking at the two beautiful girls. Now, that will be
interesting.

Chapter Two


'Can you tell me where Mr Kennedy lives, please?' asked
Rowena politely.

The porter touched his bowler hat gravely, whether in
deference to herself or Peter Kennedy she wasn't sure.

'Certainly, madam. Mr Kennedy has rooms in Old

Library, number five on the first floor.'

'Thank you,' said Rowena.

She took a quick glance at the spacious lodge, littered like
most of O:ford's college entrances with leaflets advertising
lectures, plays, jobs and pizza discounts. It was Friday,
which meant that a large pile of that week's Cherwell had
just been delivered, dumped underneath the window next
to the noticeboard. She grabbed a copy before they all
disappeared.

He would be at Christ Church, she thought.

It was the largest, most prestigious and most arrogant
college in the university. Only St John's was richer, and
only Oriel more despised by everyone else. Not that either
of these things bothered the House, as it was traditionally
nicknamed; John's was full of 'grey men', hardworking,
brilliant undergraduates destined for fellowships and research
po.sts- boring idiots in other words- and Oriel was a
poor relation. Christ Church had produced something like
twelve prime ministers and nineteen viceroys of India. Its
hall was one of the architectural wonders of England. It had
a private picture gallery, boasting drawings by Michelangelo
and Van Dyck.

Peter Kennedy could not possibly have gone anywhere.
else, Rowena thought. She smiled. And neither could I.

I3


She walked through magnificent Tom Quad, admiring
the grey Elizabethan stone, lit gently by the setting sun.
Tom Tower, rearing up behind her, began to strike the hour
five minutes early, because the college was exactly one
degree west of Greenwich. She felt very nervous, as if even
the ancient walkways and carved gargoyles were ranking up
behind Gilbert, now that Kennedy was on his side. She'd
have to talk him out of it. That was all there was to it.

Under the soaring archways of the walk into hall,
someone had pinned up the standard-issue poster announcing
the Union elections, listing the candidates and somewhat
improbably requesting that any breach of the rules be
reported toJ. Sanders, Exeter, Returning Officer. Since the
rules stated that no candidate should solicit votes, much less
form an electoral pact - a slate, in other words - they were
universally ignored, except on polling day, when the
deputy returning officers had fun making life even more
miserable for the hacks than it was already. Every hack,
once they stopped running, had a go at being a DRO and
enjoyed it immensely.

Rowena examined the poster for graffiti and was pleased to find that someone had scrawled 'Prat' after Gilbert's
name. She also noticed, laughing, that someone had
carefully written 'xo,^z ROSSL sx LDA'S' at the top of the
list of standing-committee nominees. My friend the sex
symbol. She'd tried to get Topaz to run a million times, but
unless she could interview it, report on it or give it an
impossible deadline, Topaz wasn't interested. 'Tina Brown
didn't have time for the Union,' she'd said dismissively.

Rowena strolled through the glorious cathedral cloisters
to Old Library. The door to the staircase wa heavy, solid
wood, studded with metal bolts like a dungeon entrance.
Maybe, thought Rowena fancifully, they locked Protestants
in here when Bloody Mary was queen.

She bounded up the narrow stairs to Kennedy's room,
her heart hammering, and knocked loudly. I am Librarian of
the Union, she told herself firmly, and he's a threat, that's
all, to be dealt with like any other threat.

eter, tall and tanned from rowing, opened the door.
'Miss Gordon, delighted to meet you', he said. 'I've been
expecting you. Won't you come in?'

Rowena stepped into the most luxurious undergraduate
rooms she'd seen anywhere. 'Thank you,' she said. 'Please
call me Rowena, Mr Kennedy.'

'Only if you'll agree to call me Peter,' he said, smiling,
waving her to an armchair. 'I am seeing your best friend,
after all. I'm amazed that we haven't managed to meet up
before now.'

'Then that's settled,' said Rowena, ashamed to find
herself momentarily jealous.

Christ, the guy was attractive. He was wearing a dark
blue Boat Club tracksuit, with HOtSE emblazoned on the
back in large white letters, the colour emphasizing his blue
eyes and luxuriant blond hair. To Rowena, his size and
strength made him seem even older than twenty-three,
perhaps nearer to twenty-five. There was discreet evidence
of immense wealth displayed all over the room; an antique
gold carriage clock, a couple of leather-bound first editions
on his table without library stickers on them. The bed was made up with a feather duvet and crisp Irish linen, and she
doubted even Christ Church would run to that. Peter
Kennedy was studying Anglo-Saxon under the legendary
tutelage of Richard Hamer, one of the most learned and
pleasant dons at Oxford, but there were textbooks on
advanced economics stacked in rows on his bookshelves.
Two pairs of oars were mounted across the bed; blades,
traditionally awarded to the finest rowers. And God only

knew he was that, Rowena thought.

'Coffee?' he enquired.

'Yes, please,' said Rowena. It might be a little easier when
those handsome eyes weren't staring her down.

'You presumably know why I'm here,' she said. 'Word
has it that you'll be supporting Gilbert Docker this term.
You must realize that without your intervention I'm
cruising home.'

'So how can one outsider's influence make any difference

Pto you, more or less?' asked Peter calmly, stirring the coffee.

Tm not sure,' said Rowena, deciding that honesty might
charm him, 'but I'd prefer not to chance it. Believe me, I
know how popular you are, how widely you can pull out
the Old Etonian vote, the sports vote' - she hesitated, but
added, 'the female vote . . . '

Peter handed her her coffee.

'I don't feel that anything could make Gilbert look good,'

she said, 'but if there were something, it would be your
support.'

He sat opposite her, sizing her up. Nice. Long blonde

hair, green eyes, slim body, long legs, a lady evidently. A
virgin for sure.

'Why should I support you?' he asked. 'Gilbert's the son

of a friend of my father's. You'll have to give me some very
good reasons to withdraw my backing from him.'

My God, Rowena thought. He's considering it. Is he
seriously interested in my qualifications for the job? Most
people couldn't give a monkey's about that.

'I'm the best candidate by miles,' she said, 'and you're
rumoured to be a meritocrat, Peter.'


	He smiled, amused. That was a clever slant.

'As Secretary, I doubled the number of social events and
made a profit on entertainments for the first time in four
years. As Librarian, I managed to get speakers from David
Puttnam to Mick Jagger. I've served time on every Union
committee. I've debated for Oxford in the world
championships.'

'Did we win?' asked Kennedy, interested.

'We came second to Edinburgh,' Rowena grinned. 'The
Cambridge judges were copping an attitude.'

'Classic inferiority complex,' agreed Kennedy.

'Gilbert ran straight for Secretary, just scraped in on the

OE vote because there was no serious opposition, can't be
bothered to turn up for standing-committee meetings, and
has put on exactly two parties, using hangover sponsors
from my term. He only wants to put "President of the
Union" on his application to the merchant banks. He

probably wouldn't bother with his own debates, if he got
it.'

Kennedy nodded, accepting this. 'I need some more time
to think about it,' he said. 'I won't give you a glib answer.'

Rowena got up and offered him her hand to shake,
pleasantly surprised.

He turned it over, raised it slowly to his lips and kissed it.
A shiver ran with little electric feet all over her body.

'Really, Topaz is terrible,' he said. 'Keeping you away
from me like this. If I'd had the pleasure of knowing you
beforehand, I wouldn't have committed myself to Gilbert in
the first place.'

For a second Rowena wondered how on earth Topaz had
managed to hook up with this devastating guy. She was
amazed that he would choose an American. Still...

'Well, thank you for seeing me,' she said. Tll be in touch.'


Topaz and-Rowena sat in Topaz's cramped room in Hall
Building in St Hilda's, companionably drinking huge mugs
of tea and stuffing their faces with chocolate biscuits, leafing
through back copies of Cherwell to select the best pieces for
Topaz's portfolio. What there was of Topaz's room was
very nice, as it had once belonged to a don, but in order to
create two separate rooms for lowly undergraduates someone
had partitioned it straight down the middle. Topaz thus
had half a window, which looked out on to the river, past
the gorgeous Hilda's gardens which were ablaze with roses
and thick honeysuckle. Both girls loved it here.

'God, I'm so tired,' Topaz complained. 'The fucking
computers crashed at three o'clock this morning and we all
had to stay up and retype everything.Ever tried drinking
out of a Coke can someone just used as an ashtray? No?
Well, don't bother.'

Rowena smothered a laugh, her mouth full of Hobnob.
'I've got a tutorial first thing tomorrow on Molire, and I
can't skip it because I went sick on the last one, so that means
essay crisis tonight.., and I gotta pick something out here
to show the big boys when I'm job-hunting, and I'll just


17

screw it up because I'm pissed-off.'

'You're always pissed-off, Topaz,' said Rowena.

'I brought you a present,' Topaz said, throwing her the

latest issue of Vanity Fair. 'It's got a massive piece on David
Geffen in it.'

'Oh, great!' said Rowena, grabbing it. 'David Geffen-'

' - is God, I know, I know,' said Topaz.

Rowena worshipped David Geffen, the legendary American
music mogul who had started two record companies
from scratch and made a huge success out of both of them.
He was a self-made billionaire who had started out without
a cent to his name. She kept a New York Times profile on him
tacked above her bed.

'So?' said Rowena defensively. 'You'd walk a mile over
broken glass for five minutes with Tina Brown.'

'I'd walk ten miles,' sighed Topaz, imagining it. Tina
Brown was young, beautiful, happily married and the
greatest mhgazine powerhouse the world had ever seen, or
at least that's what Topaz Rossi thought. She had left
Oxford, gone into editing and seemed to double the
circulation of any magazine in whose direction she glanced.
Now she ran Vanity Fair, and had produced a cocktail of
glitz and gravitas that made it the hottest title on the shelves,

hotter even than Cosmopolitan, if that were possible.
'I want what she's got, damn it!' Topaz said.
'You've got Cherwell.'

'It's hardly Vanity Fair, now is it?' asked Topaz sarcastically.


'It's a start,' Rowena insisted. 'It got you The Times.'

'That's true,' admitted Topaz,' her bad mood evaporating.
'How's the debate coming along?'

Tve got no problems,' said Rowena, supremely confident.
'Gilbert Docker? I'll slaughter him.'

'What did Peter say?' Topaz asked, with an uncharacteristic
blush. Somehow, talking about Peter in front of
Rowena always made her feel a bit dirty. Rowena was still a
virgin, amazingly enough.

'He said he'd think about it,' Rowena told her. 'Are you


i8

seeing him tonight?'

'Yeah,' Topaz said. She was glad Rowena had dealt with
it herself. She'd hate to have to discuss slate politics with
Peter.

There was a slight pause.

'Let's get on with it, then,' Rowena said, picking up a
feature on the Magdalen May Ball.


Topaz arched her back from the pleasure of it, feeling the
night dew of the meadow wet beneath her. Over her head
she could see the spires of the ancient city, black against the
night. They were a few feet away from the riverbank and
somewhere under the urgent heat of her pleasure she could
hear the gentle murmuring of the water. God, it was so
beautiful. In New York the neon lights of the city obliterated
all the s-tars; here, under Peter's exquisite touch, she
could see them scattered across the whole sky, like sherbet.

Peter's tongue was flicking up and down her spine, his
fingertips lightly tracing her ribcage, half tickling, half
caressing. Her whole body felt sensitized, alive. Topaz
parted her legs, ready for him, enjoying the weight of him,
the feeling of his large, thick erection pushing into her. She
liked his strength. Sometimes she might even have liked it a
little rougher, but that wasn't Peter's style; sex was an art for
him.

She felt his fingers slide around and underneath her,
reaching for her belly, for the delicate little skin patches just
under her hips, wanting to stroke them, to feel them flutter under his touch. It sent a new spasm of wetness through her,
and she moaned. He had taken his time discovering her
body. He knew where he could tfirn her on. Topaz pressed
against him, squirming into his hands. He liked that. His
cock leapt against her.

Topaz moved with him, getting hotter. She was dose,
she could feel it. She wriggled about, so she could push up
against his cock with the cheeks of her ass. Peter gasped
when she did that, surprised by a new surge of desire, lie
pulled back, positioned himself to enter her. Topaz opened


I9

herself wider, waves of heat spreading through her.

'Now, baby,' she urged, and Peter began to thrust, in and

out, pulling so far back he was almost withdrawn, and then
plunging back inside her, slick with her juice. He was
getting harder inside her, he was nearly there. He put his
hands on her shoulders, gripping her hard, pushing into her
faster, pleasuring her. Topaz sobbed. Maybe someone
would walk across the meadows. Maybe someone would
see them. She moaned, she was going to come. The block of
pressure in her stomach dissolved and shattered, rippling
through her, a long shiver of orgasm. Peter went rigid with
pleasure, came, and relaxed on top of her.

Topaz kissed his shoulder. 'You were amazing,' she said.

The? Oh, baby,' he said. 'You're fantastic.'

He rolled offher, and they lay on the riverbank together,

' exhausted.

'This is so romantic,' Topaz said. 'I just can't believe it.'
She was incredibly happy. Peter was so gentle, so
imaginative, so tender with her. The fumbling boys back in
Brooklyn had never been like this. And her father had
wanted one of them for her husband! If Gino could see this
sunning, rich English gentleman, he'd throw a fit. Topaz
had a brief, vengeful fantasy about taking Peter back for
dinner and watching her poppa fall over himself to kiss his
ass. Not that she'd ever darken that asshole's door again.

Tm glad you think so,' Peter said. He grabbed his jacket,

took out a packet of cigarettes and lit up. The smoke curled
up in the darkness, white and fragrant. 'Your friend
Rowena came to see me today,' he added. 'About the
Union. She wants me to drop ou of supporting Gilbert.'

'She mentioned it,' Topaz said, warily. One thing she had
learnt was that Union politics got deadly serious. She
suppressed the memory of her friend's mute appeal for help
this afternoon; she didn't want Peter to think she was
interfering.

'Trouble is, I'm committed to him,' Peter said easily.

'Are you cold, darling? No? I might get out of it, but it'd be
tricky.'

20


Topaz curled against the warmth of his side. She still

tingled from his caress. 'You guys can sort it out,' she said.
Peter allowed his arm to drop round her, enjoying the
feeling of her firm, full breasts. It was pleasant, being with
Topaz Rossi. She was eager, enthusiastic and fun. He was
slightly surprised that Rowena Gordon was her friend.
They were so different.

Idly he pictured Rowena as she had come to deal with him
that morning. The shimmering blonde hair. The graceful
poise. The confident manner. If being with Topaz was
exploring the exotic, talking to slim, elegant Rowena
Gordon was like looking in a mirror. And that was
something else Peter Kennedy enjoyed.

'Leave it to us, sweetheart,' he said. We'll find some
solution. Tell your friend to come and see me again.'

Chapter Three


'Topaz, please,' Rowena said, twisting her fingers around
under her cuffs.

The two girls were walking down the wide gravel path
that bisected Christ Church meadows, strolling down to
the river. It was the middle of Eights'Week, the traditional
summer rowing contest. Every college fielded male and
female teams - except St Hilda's, which didn't admit men and
the students took it very seriously indeed. Topaz had
two whole teams of Cherwell reporters asigned to it, and
every hack in the Union took up position outside their
college boathouse first thing in the morning. Ambition
aside, where else could you be? The sun was beating down,
the water was glittering and the alcohol was flowing.
Thousands of kids were packing the riverbank, this year like
every year. Rowena and Topaz were threading through a
crowd on their way down there, and it was only ten in the
morning. The crack of dawn. Normally they wouldn't even
be awake.

'No. Jesus, how many times? I said no, and I meant it,'
Topaz answered, with something of an edge to her tone.
'I'm not gonna discuss it with Peter for you: I don't want to
get involved. Capisci?'

'I get that, but I need your help,' Rowena said, hammering
away. 'I have to get Peter, if not to go with me, at least to
hold back from supporting Gilbert.'

'What part of "no" don't you understand?' Topaz asked,
sarcastically. 'The guy's my boyfriend. This stuff is as
important to him as it is to you. If I start interfering, lae's
gonna be turned offlike a light switch. I'm devotin, g every

damn issue of the paper to what an asshole Gilbert Docker
is. Isn't that enough?'

'Yeah, and you know I'm really grateful, but-'

'No. No buts,' Topaz interrupted her impatiently, pushing
a handful of scarlet curls away from her forehead, and
yet again Rowena was struck by how terrific, how brazen,
her friend looked. Today she was wearing cut-off denim
shorts that fitted snugly round her taut, curvy ass, the tiny
threads on the fringes just kissing the tops of firm,tanned
thighs, and a yellow-checked shirt tied above her flat
midriff, the fabric pulled hard against those overripe
breasts. She felt another quick burst of frustrated envy,
immediately followed by a stab of guilt.

'You'll have to talk him into it yourself, Rowena. That's
your specialty, anyway.'

'I'm seeing more of him than you are, these days,'
Rowena said softly.

For a second Topaz glanced across at her. 'You can't hate
his company as much as you're making out,' she said.
'Peter's not so bad. Hey, you're gonna have to get to like
him. You'll have to dance with him at our wedding. That's
in the chief bridesmaid's job description, says so in all the
books.' She grinned.

'Wedding! Don't you think you might be rushing this just
a little bit?' Rowena exploded.

'Maybe. Let's not talk about it any more,' Topaz begged.
'I don't want to have a row with you. But I'm not getting
involved. OK?'

'OK,' Rowena said, looking away. She swallowed her
fury. Tll see you later, Tope, all right? I want to see how
we're getting on.'

'Sure,' her friend said, giving her a cheerful wink as she
headed towards a hot-dog stand.


Rowena fought her anger all the way down the riverfront as she strolled towards the Christ Church boathouse. Not that
anyone watching her would have known it; she walked
slowly, waving at anyone who looked even vaguely


23

blonde hair look almost platinum, and the long cotton dress
she'd picked out that morning flowed closely round her slim
body. She'd picked out just a kiss of make-up - clover lips,
beige eyeshadow - and in her own way she looked just as
sexy as Topaz Rossi.

But it was Topaz Rossi who was dating Peter Kennedy,

not her.

Yes, and he'd really dump her for bringing up politics,
Rowena thought, blowing a playful kiss to Emily Chan, a
friend of hers from Lady Margaret Hall. Why can't she just
do this for me? Why do I have to be closeted with her
fucking boyfriend? If I was dating some guy at a national
paper I'd talk to him about her...

The path exploded with cheers as Merton's women's
crew tore past, oars slicing up the water with powerful
strokes, and Oriel only seconds behind.

'Go on, Merton!' she shouted, jumping up and down.
Ancient college rivalry between Christ Church and Oriel.

, Anybody was preferable to those guys winning . . .

'Yeah, move it!' a voice agreed behind her. The sun was
blacked out by a Christ Church scarf being looped around
her head from behind, knotted and pulled tightly together.
'Guess who?' the voice whispered in her ear. A low male
voice, laughing at her.

'Cut it out, Kennedy,' Rowena snapped.

He loosened the scarf, letting her see again. 'You're too
easy, Rowena. Don't look where you're going. You could
get into all kinds of trouble that way.'

She reached up to her neck and ripped it off. 'What are
you doing here?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Same thing you are. Supporting
Sam and the guys.' He nodded towards the Christ Church
boat, moored just ahead of them, where Sam Wilson,
Captain of Boats, and the main men's crew were waiting to
race. 'That is what you're doing, right?'

24


Of course,' Rowena replied icily.

Damn, why did he have to look at her like that? Look her
up and down like that? What was she supposed to do about
it? Say, 'Hey, you belong to Topaz'?

'Sure you're not here to hack?' he teased her. 'All these
votes, within such easy reach . . . '

'Sure you're not here to relive past glories?' she countered.

Last year Peter Kennedy had been Captain of Boats and
had led Christ Church to a record victory. There had been
talk of Olympic trials, hut Kennedy had chosen to give up
sport to concentrate on his finals. Now Sam Wilson looked
as though he might be leading them to Head of the River
again, and the Olympic coaches were sniffing round new
stars, like Johnny Searle.

'You know how to hit where it hurts,' Peter said, not
taking his eyes off her. He made it sound vaguely obscene.
'Rowing me'ant a lot to me. Still does.'

'I can see that,' Rowena answered, struck by the closeness
of his body, the broad, tanned chest in a white T-shirt inches
from her face. Peter Kennedy would have graced any beach
in California.

'Are you flirting with me?' Peter asked, catching her
green eyes on his body.

Ridiculously, Rowena felt her breath catch in her throat.

Where the fuck's Topaz? she thought.

'Don't be absurd,' she said coldly.

'Maybe you should flirt With me. Kiss up to me a little,'
Peter suggested, smiling at her with a lazy grin. 'You do

want my help, right?'

'Not that badly.'

'Don't be so uptight. I'm just kidding,' he said, putting
one hand on her waist and steering her towards their
boathouse. 'Topaz wouldn't want us to quarrel.'

Despite herself, Rowena stiffened beneath his touch.
Peter Kennedy smiled.

'Rowena! Peter! Hurry up!' said James Gunn, a friend of
theirs, pulling the two of them into the Christ Church

'crowd. 'You nearly missed it, we're about to start.'

Rowena felt herself surrounded by bodies in college
colours, hundreds of them, all seething forward towards the
bank, shouting and clapping. Somebody flung an arm
round her. She flung an arm round somebody. The college

was going berserk.

'House! House!'

They were about to cut the boat loose. Rowena was lost

in a press of navy blue, thrown forward towards the
mooring boards. 'I can't see anything!' she complained to
no one in particular.

Suddenly she felt herself being lifted up from behind, as
lightly as a doll, and hoisted backwards over the heads of the
crowd. Amazed, she looked down, to see Peter ducking
between her legs, supporting her on his shoulders. She had a
perfect view of the boat, the river, everything.

The back of Peter Kennedy's strong neck pressed against

her white cotton panties.

It felt good.

'Put me down!' she insisted, weakly.
He grinned up at her. 'Later.'
With a roar from the crowd, the Christ Church boat
sprang away from its moorings, finding the stroke at once.
The eight rowers moved in perfect harmony into the water
their oars churning it up at terrific speed, chasing the Oriel
first boat. The supporters on the bank immediately broke
up and started to run alongside it, screaming encouragement
at the tops of their voices and cursing the rival crew
amicably. Peter ran with them, carrying Rowena above
him, his hands holding her thighs in an iron grip, ignoring
her protests. Her weight was evidently nothing to him.

Rowena, startled, cheered and shouted with the rest. It
was too much fun. Besides which, she couldn't help but
think, every single person here could see her getting into it,
supporting her college - she'd be kind of hard to miss, with
her fair hair streaming out behind her like a banner,
piggybacking on top of Peter Kennedy.

There was a cry of triumph as Christ Church inexorably


26

rammed into the tail of the Oriel boat.

'Bumped!' Peter yelled. He reached up and swung
Rowena gracefully down from his back with one hand.

She touched her feet to the ground, smoothing down her

dress, suddenly embarrassed, wondering what to say.
'We win again,' he said.
'Thanks, Peter,' she muttered.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, casually. 'That
was fun. Let's do it again some time,' he suggested.

Rowena Gordon blushed bright red, nodded as coldly as
she could, and walked offdown the path.


Cherwell was buzzing.

It was two weeks to the Union elections, and it looked
like they were going to be close. Every college was being
hacked full-throttle by eager candidates from the opposing
slates. Each new day brought a fresh crop of rumour,
treachery anti malicious gossip; Tori had defected, Joss
wasn't pulling his weight, rival candidates were still sleeping
with each other . . . Topaz loved it. It was an editor's
dream.

Of course, the biggest rumour of all was that Peter
Kennedy and Rowena Gordon were on the verge of doing a
deal. If that happened, all bets were off. Rowena would be
home free, the first woman President of the Union for five
years. Gilbert Docker needed Peter to survive.

Whenever Rowena or Gilbert went round to Peter, the
news trickled back to Cherwell. Mostly Topaz didn't report
it. She wanted to throw as much weight as she could behind
her best friend, and she concentrated on articles about
Gilbert's sexism or the bully-boy tctics, of his followers.
God only knew they made the best reading; one of her
writers at St Anne's had come in just that morning with a
story of how Gilbert's Secretary candidate, a popular
Scottish guy reading law, had stuck a ten-inch carving knife
into the door of his female opponent on Rowena's slate.
Topaz had been ecstatic; the story was dynamite. She'd lead
this Friday's edition on it.

27


The only thing she would not do was interfere personally.
Rowena had asked her to take over with Peter three times
this week, but Topaz always turned her down flat. She
knew what the Presidency meant to Rowena, but evenso,
she couldn't risk her boyfriend over it.

'Have you seen my layout for the jobs pages?' Rupert
asked, weaving in between their rickety photocopiers with
a full cup of coffee. 'I'm sure I left it on top of my desk... '

Topaz shook her head, preoccupied with the carving
knife. College authorities had pulled it out of Lisa's door,
and she was wondering if she could get away with sticking a
similar knife in the door and taking a photo of that.

'You're bloody useless, Rupe,' Gareth Kelly said. 'We
had two thousand quids' worth of advertising from
McKinsey in that.'

I'll find it, OK?' promised her deputy editor, sounding
harassed. Rupert was scatty and untidy, but a great journalist.
Topaz could see that clearly. Even on a college paper he
had a knack for ferreting out the real stories: single-parent
students, harassing tutors, tkupe had been the first to congratulate
her on her Times commission. He was the only
person on the staffwho realized it meant more than a £x5o
cheque.

'Here.it is,' shouted Jane Edwards, the features editor.
Rupert leaned gratefully across and grabbed it, answering
the phone at the same time and slopping coffee all over his
desk.

'Cherwell. Yeah. Who should I say is calling?'

He handed the receiver to Topaz with a wink. 'It's for
you. Geoffrey Stevens at The Times.'

Topaz grabbed the phone, swinging her long legs over

the desk to reach it. Every guy in the place sighed mentally.
'Miss Rossi?' asked a cool voice.

'That's me,' Topaz replied, trying to sound flip and
unconcerned. She'd posted off her article two days ago.
What if the guy hated it?

'This is Geoffrey Stevens,' he said. 'We received your
article on student benefits yesterday. We were won. dering if


28

you might like to consider a new use for it?'

Topaz's heart sank. It wasn't good enough for the Educational Supplement. 'What did you have in mind?' she
asked.

'I think this is a bit too good to tuck away in a
supplement,' Stevens said. 'I've shown it to the features
editor and he agrees with me- we want to use it in the main
paper.'

Topaz put out a hand to steady herself against the desk.
She was too stunned to speak.

'I know what you're thinking,' Stevens went on, 'you're
wondering where we're going to put it. And you're right,
of course, that's a problem just at the minute. We're full up,
but if you can bear to wait a fortnight we'll run it two weeks
on Monday. Would that be OK?'

'That'd be fine,' Topaz said, trying not to sound too
overjoyed.

'Terrific! I'hoped I could count on you. And send me
some more, if you've got it. We're always looking for new
talent.'

'Thanks, I will,' said Topaz. She hung up, and looked at
the six faces gazing at her expectantly.

'Oh my God!' she exclaimed. 'I'm in!'


Rowena planned her campaign with military care. Every
speech was dramatic. Every outfit was sexy. Every hack on
her slate had his or her orders, and everyone followed them.
Rowena had found out whothe weak links were early on,
kept them out of slate meetings and assigned them to the

smallest colleges. She just wasn't taking risks.
She wanted to be President of the Union.
She wanted it badly.

She would do almost anything to win.

And that was the problem. Because in this case, 'anything'
involved Peter Edward Kennedy, her best friend's
boyfriend, the power behind Gilbert's throne. The one man
who could hand her what she wanted on a golden plate.

Since that first meeting, Kennedy had swung back and


29

forth like a pendulum. Yes, he would support her. No, he'd
given his word. OK, Gilbert was a sexist and an elitist. He
would back her slate. Well, maybe he wasn't sure . . .

Rowena knew she could not let this go. However
annoyed, however exasperated she got, she never let it
show. If Peter Kennedy could be won over, it was worth

any effort. It was worth going to see him four times a week.
And that was the real problem.

Rowena Gordon, the proverbial ice maiden, was having

to deal with something more than annoyance. Something
so new she didn't even recognize it at first, but which slowly
took a hold of her, until it was all she could do to control
herself. She was falling for Peter.

Every day she had to deal with it. He forced her to sit in

his rooms and discuss politics with him, a subject which
normally fascinated her. But with Peter Kennedy she found
she was tuning out. She wasn't listening to him, she was
watching his lips move. The square, bold set of his jaw. The
thick flaxen hair. The well-developed muscles sliding under
the brown, healthy skin.

Peter entranced her. He was so intelligent, so masculine,

so assured. Normally Rowena despised men of her own
class: wimpy chinless wonders, the lot of them. Gilbert
Docker was a typical specimen. But Peter Kennedy wasn't
like that. He was a thorough gentleman, but he was sexual
too. He was graceful, but he obviously knew how to fight.
He was accomplished, but he was also a fiercely competitive
athlete. He interested her. He excited her.

'What do you want out of life?' he asked her. 'When is it
enough?'

'I want everything!' Rowena replied. 'It's never enough!'
'When you die, they'll put "Dreamer" on your gravestone,'
Peter said, looking at her admiringly. 'You remind
me of something Henry Ford once said- "Whether you
think you can, or whether you think you can't, you are
right. "'

She'd glowed with pleasure at his approval.

She knew it was dangerous. She knew it was. wrong.

3°


Topaz was in love with him, for God's sake! But what could
she do? Without Peter's backing she might fail. And failure
was something Rowena Gordon wouldn't stand for.

She began to get angry with Topaz. Why couldn't she do
this? Peter was her boyfriend. He'd listen to her. If Topaz
would talk to him, she wouldn't have to torment herself,
but no, her friend just refused to help. It was the first breach
that had come between them. Topaz wouldn't even discuss
it. She's too absorbed with her goddamn paper, Rowena
thought angrily. Student Journalist of the Year. Young
Editor of the Year. Future Times columnist.

So Rowena walked in and out of Christ Church's
magnificent Tudor stone four times a week, because
Kennedy refused to let her off the hook. He wanted to be
persuaded, talked into it. He told Rowena he enjoyed her
company, that she was beautiful, brilliant and enthralling,
and that since he had all the cards, she'd have to humour
him. °

Rowena tried to convince herself that this annoyed her.


Silk. Satin. Swirling chiffon. The lawns of St Hilda's were
covered in ballgowns. Thin, sparkling sheaths clung tightly
to their owners' bodies, short, bias-cut numbers displayed
miles of pretty calves, and old-fashioned crinoline gowns
swept regally to the ground, their delicate hems brushing
the close-mown grass. The only women's college left at
Oxford was preparing for the Union Ball.

'What do you think?' Topaz demanded. She struck a pose
against an oak tree wreathed in white dog-roses.

'Very sexy,' Rowena Said. Topaz was wearing a tiny,
barely-there outfit of navy velvet Which.contrasted beautifully
with her auburn hair, bright blue eyes and healthy
tanned skin. The dress was boned at the ribs to emphasize
her magnificent breasts, and cut off six inches above the
knee, displaying acres of firm, rounded thighs. It was a
knockout; even the old porters couldn't stop staring at her.

Rowena tried to hide her disapproval. What did Topaz
think she was wearing? She looked like a tramp. That little


3I

scrap of fabric hardly hid her underwear. How could - she
tried to smother her snobbery, but failed - a gentleman like
Peter Kennedy want to date her? She was so brazen!

'Do you think it's possibly a little short?' she added
coldly.

'What's the matter, am I embarrassing you? Huh?' Topaz
grinned. 'Wondering what Peter's going to do with me
when he checks this out?'

Rowena blushed scarlet.

'Hey, hey, I'm only teasing,' Topaz said hastily. 'You're
getting a little uptight these days, that's all.'

'Election pressure,' offered Rowena, ashamed of herself.

She was letting jealousy sour her friendship.

'You look wonderful,' Topaz said warmly. 'Fantastic.

It's a little conservative for me, but I'm sure it'll win you
hundreds of votes. Who could see you tonight and not vote
for you?'

Rowena had chosen a family heirloom, an antique
Regency gown in light pink silk. It was embroidered with a
subtle design of heather sprigs, picked out on the bodice in
cloth-of-gold. She was wearing her long hair straight,
ltting it tumble in a blonde curtain over her shoulders. Her
shoes were satin heels from Chanel, and she was carrying a
small fan and an elegant clutch bag. Long washed-silk
gloves reached up to her elbows. Cinderella would have
been proud.

'Thanks,' Rowena smiled. 'That's the idea.'

Topaz glanced at her again, more slowly. 'You devious
bitch,' she said affectionately. 'They could stick a picture of
you in the dictionary next to "l/dylike". It's all part of the
masterplan, am I right? Look feminine, talk feminist? You'll
hook the women with their ears and the men with their

eyes.

Rowena laughed. 'For a foreigner, you're a quick
learner. '

A porter shuffled across the manicured lawns towards
them. 'Taxi, Miss Rossi,' he said.

32


So when are they printing it?'

'Two weeks from yesterday,' Topaz said. The taxi
crawled across Magdalen Bridge, the Gothic splendour of
the college rearing up to her right. Undergraduates in full
evening dress were picking their way along the High Street,
but Rowena didn't want to walk. Not that the locals paid
any attention. Every year, ball dresses, dinner jackets and
drunken students were a standard fixture in the summer
term. 'And he asked me to give him some more stuff, said
they were always looking for talent . . . '

Excitement and happiness bubbled in her voice.

'They'll print it right after the election,' remarked
Rowena. It was so close now. Anxiety balled in her stomach
like a fist. She must win, she must! The Presidency of the
Union would be her crowning achievement so far. After she
graduated, she was going to give everything up, sink herself
into rock music, carve out a new life. Mavericks like David
Geffen were her heroes. But all that had to wait. Rowena
Gordon was totally single-minded, it was part of her
control. If she was going to drop out later, fine. But she had
to drop out as a winner, and the Presidency was the ultimate
prize.

'Yeah,' Topaz agreed. 'And it means I'm on my way. I
can't get over what you did for me, getting your dad to
make Geoffrey Stevens look at my work. I could wind up
working for The Times now.'

'For The Times?' asked Rowena, confused. 'Won't you go
back to New York?'

'I was planning to, but not any more,' Topaz said. She
stretched luxuriously. 'Not now I've met Peter.'

The car took a right down Cbrnmarket towards the
Union. The early evening air was mild nd warm, perfect
weather for a ball. The event was sold out, and student
politicians from both slates would be there, hacking the
crowd for all they were worth. Rowena dragged her mind
away from Peter Kennedy. There were more important
things at stake.

r

''James!' Rowena said. She fought her way through the
glittering crowd of bright young things crowding the
lobby, dragging Topaz with her. 'Topaz, you must meet
my escort, James Williams. He's running for Treasurer with

US.'

'As if I didn't know,' Topaz smiled, shaking hands with a
gorgeous young second year in army dress uniform. James
Williams was a rising star, honest, popular and very good
looking. He was also up at Oxford on a military bursary,
and even in the left-wing student atmosphere that commanded
grudging respect.

'Delighted,'James said, gripping her hand firmly. 'Chef
well gets better every week. I see you've won a fistful of
awards.'

'You certainly know how to charm a reporter,' Topaz
said. 'And everybody else, I hear.'

'What's this, Williams?' demanded Peter Kennedy, coming up behind them. 'Chatting up my girlfriend? We
can't allow that, can we?'

James grinned. Peter had been in the year above him at
Eton. 'When are you going to do the decent thing and back
ts, Kennedy?' he demanded.

'Subtle as an H-bomb,' Rowena apologized.

Peter just smiled at her, and turned to kiss Topaz's hand.
'What a sensational dress.'

You're nearly wearing, finished Rowena silently. Watching
Peter Kennedy eat Topaz alive with his eyes was just too
much. She burned with envy and total inadequacy. God,
Topaz had curves on her curves, while she was a mere stick
insect. And Topaz was probabl;f his fantasy in bed, as well.
She was just a frustrated, ignorant little virgin. How could
she ever have imagined she could compete with a sassy,
gorgeous American? It was politics that interested Peter.
Not her.

'And Rowena,' he said. 'Stand back and let me look at

you.'

Rowena took a pace back, aware of a crowd of onlookers
watching her, including some of Gilbert's supporters,

dismayed to see Peter Kennedy getting so friendly with her.
She managed a radiant smile.

'Breathtaking,' Peter said, after what seemed like an
eternity. 'James, you are a lucky bastard.'

A shiver of delight rippled through her. He almost
sounded like he meant it.

'Come on, babe, they've got business to attend to,' Topaz
grinned. And so have we, she thought. Somewhere dark and
private.

'Absolutely,' said Peter, gently squeezing her hand. He
nodded at Rowena. 'You and I will have to hook up again
later, Miss Gordon. I've come to a decision.'

'Come on, Rowena. Let's get some champagne,' James
said, not wanting to push him.


Topaz was having a good time. The crowd was partying
hard, the music was great, the food was plentiful and Peter
was with hr. How could she not enjoy herself?. They'd
been to the masseur, the video room, the manicurist, the
fortuneteller and the handwriting expert, who proclaimed
that Peter was trustworthy and confident and that Topaz
had a good sense ofhumour.

'I wonder why they never see anything bad in there,'
Topaz commented afterwards.

'With you, there's nothing bad to see,' Peter said.
They'd found a wildly drunk bunch of her compatriots
who tried and failed to teach Peter 'The Star-Spangled
Banner', danced cheek-to'cheek to a chamber music
quartet, and roasted marshmallows together in a bonfire lit
in the gardens.

'At least I found one American {ustom you like,' Topaz
teased him.

'Oh, I like a lot of American things,' Kennedy replied,
letting his right hand slip to the back of her dress.

When he took her in his arms and kissed her by the
firelight, she felt pure happiness flood through her. All the
time she'd struggled in New Jersey, for attention from her
family, for popularity at school, to make something of the


35

only life she had, she'd never dreamed college could be like
this. More friends than she could count, English and
American. A student paper she ran by herself. A best friend
whom she relied on completely. And a boyfriend whom she
could easily fall in love with.

'You mean the world to me,' she said breathlessly when
they stopped kissing.

Peter smoothed her hair, gently. 'You're incredible,' he
said.

She's far more innocent than sh makes out, he thought.
He lifted her to her feet. 'We ought to get back inside,' he
suggested. 'I have to abandon you for a few minutes. I need
to find Rowena. Anyway, I don't want you catching cold.'
'All right,' Topaz agreed, looking lovingly at him.

Peter didn't like it. Why did she have to get that devoted
shine in her eyes? He wasn't her father, for Christ's sake.


Laughing. Smiling. Applauding loudly. Flirting. Joking.
Rowena was on automatic pilot. Three hours of this rubbish
and she could hardly bear to tell one more overweight
postgraduate how stunning she looked in cherry velveteen,
but she did it anyway. You had to lead from the front, right?
All her female politicos were going through the same thing.

copeR°wenawithdidn'theels.W°rry about the men. They didn't have to

'Brought you a margarita,' Chris Johnson said, shoving
through a crowd of freshers to get to her. Chris was her
Librarian candidate, a clever, nice, scatty guy with a shock of
brown hair that made him look like a young Albert Einstein.

'You lifesaver,' she said graefully, taking a refreshing

sip. 'How's it going downstairs?'

'Oh, pretty well,' he nodded. 'All our lot are pouring
double measures into every drink they serve.'

Rowena grinned. Handing out ridiculously generous
measures of drink was a time-honoured way of making
yourself popular with the voters.

'Not my money,' she and Chris said in unison, and
laughed


36

'You should go up to the masseur,' she suggested. 'A

bunch of helpless voters trapped in a queue.'

'You got it,' he said.

Rowena finished her drink slowly, glad of the break, and
smoothed down the fragile silk of her dress. Amazingly
enough she'd managed to prevent it from getting torn in the
crush, God knew how. She was fond of this gown, it had
been in the family for generations and she'd like to see her
daughter wear it to a ball some day. Better than turning up
semi-naked like Topaz.

'Rowena,' Peter Kennedy said.

She spun round to find him standing at the foot of a pillar
draped in gold streamers and ivy leaves, watching her. He
was leaning against the wall, casually, his black dinner
jacket slightly crumpled from holding Topaz outside.

'Hello, Peter,' she said, flushing red. 'Are you enjoying
yourself?.'

He nodde°d absently. 'I wonder if you could spare me five
minutes?' he asked.

God, how beautiful she is, he thought. Attractive in
exactly the opposite way to Topaz. Rowena was so
obviously embarrassed, blushing whenever he turned up,
trying to get out of coming to see him. He felt the familiar
twitch in his thighs. Rowena Gordon was a challenge, much
more of a challenge than her best friend. A virgin. And very
loyal to Topaz, or so people said.

She was struggling with herself.

She wanted him.

'Of course,' Rowena said. She glanced around her at the
ballgoers cramming every available inch of space in the
main bui!ding. Only one thing for

'We can go into the Officers' Offices,' she suggested,
beckoning him to follow her. She turned into what looked
like an under-stair cupboard and punched a code into a
security lock. The Officers' Offices, for the Librarian,
Treasurer and Secretary, were a little back annexe closed off
to the public. It was about the only place that would be
private.

37


Peter shut the door behind him and whistled softly. 'Aft
Baba's cave,' he said.

Rowena shook her head. 'Hardly. They don't even heat
it. A few computers, some files and leftover cans of low
alcohol beer don't add up to limitless riches.'

She couldn't look him in the face. Suddenly, they were
out of all the noise and the crush and she was alone with
him. Her best friend's man.

How can you be with Topaz! Rowena thought angrily.
You're so different from her!

'You said you'd come to a decision,' she said, as coolly as
she could.

'That's right,' Peter agreed. He moved closer to her, and
she could smell the faint scent of his cologne. 'You've talked
me into it. I can't actively campaign for you, but I'll
withdraw my support from Gilbert. I'm going to break it to
him tomorrow.'

Rowena felt overwhelmed with relief. He'd just handed
her the election. Gilbert Docker had a snowball's chance in
hell without Peter Kennedy's help. He was talentless, elitist
and completely disorganized. At the debate on feminism
laext week she intended to prove that.

'I don't know how to thank you,' she said, beaming with
delight.

Peter took a step towards her. 'I do,' he said. He bent
forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.

A second later, Rowena pulled back. But it was a second
too long. Kennedy had already felt her soft mouth welcoming
his embrace, her nipples stiffen against his shirt - he
could feel them through her dress - the telltale brightness in
the eyes and the shortness of breath. Desire surged through
him. Topaz Rossi was a skilled, passionate lover, but
Rowena's timidness and uncertainty was something else.
He wanted to have her. To teach her about sex. He'd never
taken a girl's virginity. The thought of it aroused him
almost unbearably.

'What are you doing?' Rowena hissed. 'What about
Topaz?'


38

He nearly said, 'What about her?' but stopped himself in
time.

'I know, I feel so guilty,' Peter admitted, undressing her
with his eyes. Oh, look. She was blushing from head to toe.
How sweet. 'Topaz is a great girl, and I'm fond of her too,
but... I can't help the way I feel about you.'

'Topaz is my friend,' Rowena insisted. 'That's all there is
to it.'

God, she wanted him.

'We'd never have lasted together,' Kennedy said
smoothly. 'You know that. She's American, she wants
different things out of life to me. I only realized it once I
started seeing you and talking to you. We're the same,
Rowena. We might have a chance together. Let me talk to
Topaz and explain things to her.'

'No, no,' said Rowena. She felt as though she could
hardly breathe. To hear Peter say what she'd been thinking
for so long'.., it was killing her. 'Just leave me alone. I
can't talk to you again,' and she wrenched open the door and

ran out, her eyes brimming with tears.
Peter Kennedy watched her go. Not long now, he thought.

39


Chapter Four


The air in the chamber was thick With tension.

Rowena sat on the opposition benches, her beautiful face
frozen in stone. She appeared to be listening gravely to
Gilbert Docker's bumbling, inept attempt at proposing the
motion.

At the moment, he was making jokes about male
executives having their innocent, appreciative comments
towards female juniors totally misconstrued by dykey
feminists. It wasn't going down too badly, on the face of it;
a crowd of drunk, upper-class rugby players and Oriel
boaties had turned up and were cheering every sexist
innuendo to the rafters. Gilbert's normally squeaky voice
Was climbing higher and higher with pleasure, and his face
had gone red and sweaty from the heat; he was annoying
everyone else, Rowena noticed.

She put a delicate hand to her temple, trying to make the
sick, dizzy feeling go away. Why me? she thought. Why
now?

Chris Johnson, who as top of standing committee was
sitting in the Secretary's chair while Gilbert spoke, glanced
across at his slate boss. He was ;¢ery worried. The chamber
was packed solid with students, cramming the benches,
squeezed up on the floor, thronging the gallery upstairs. It
was Wednesday; the election would be on Friday week.
Presidential Debates and officer hustings were usually held
on the night before the election, but Crown Princess
Victoria of Sweden was due to speak that day, so tonight's
showdown had been brought forward. The unusual timing
made the debate even more crucial for their slate.; Oxford


4o

ould have more than a week to reflect on this evening's
performances.

And Rowena Gordon was a star. A brilliant speaker. She
could wipe the floor with Gilbert Docker, ninety-nine times
out of a hundred. Indeed, a large chunk of the crowd had
turned up specifically to see a bloodbath.

Oh, there'll be a bloodbath, OK, Chris thought grimly.
But it might not be Gilbert's blood.

Rowena looked stunning. No problems there. She was
wearing a strapless ballgown of crushed red velvet, a
Balenciaga original of her mother's which emphasized her
perfect small breasts and tiny waist, and then cascaded to the
floor in sumptuous raspberry folds. The richness of the
colour picked out her shimmering hair, and her ice-mint
eyes were sharp and glittering.

Glittering far too brightly, Chris thought. The girls who
were looking at her enviously and the guys who were sizing
her up hadn't seen her like he had this morning, her hair
slick with perspiration, her skin pale and shining with
sweat. They'd called the doctor: Rowena Gordon, on the
morning of her Presidential Debate, had a temperature of
IO3 and was immediately confined to bed. Chris, as her
friend, had tried to talk her out of it, but as soon as the
doctor had left, she got up, staggered over to her sink and
swallowed ten Nurofen.

'It's not worth it, for Christ's sake,' Chris had said,
aghast. 'You'll kill yourself.'

Rowena, shivering with fever, looked at him.

'No I won't,' she said levelly. I'll kill Gilbert.'


In the gallery, Peter Kennedy was watching Rowena
intently.

Something's wrong, he mused. I know it is.

He thought about how amusing it would be to console
her for the loss of the Presidency. Ladies simply had to learn
not to bite offmore than they could chew. He looked at her
again, unsure exactly what it was, but confident that Gilbert
would be fine now.

wHe had a killer's instinct for weakness.


Topaz Rossi was really trying hard to concentrate on the
debate, but couldn't. Rowena looked great and she'd cruise
it. And if, by some disaster, she did say anything stupid
now, or miss some chance to shred Gilbert, Friday's Cherwel! would wrap it up for her.

Rowena tried to think her way through the lightness and
fuzz in her brain. She tugged at the red silk wrap around her
shoulders. Get it together, girl, get i't together. She knew the
drugs had sent her ten miles high.

She smiled at her friend, Richard Black, the Treasurer
elect, who was sitting directly opposite her. He grinned
tentatively back, but was making frantic gestures at his
chest.

Rowena raised an eyebrow. What are you trying to say?
Richard just kept on gesticulating. In the end, unable to
work out his signals, she shrugged amiably and turned a
contemptuous gaze on Docker.

Gilbert sat down to polite applause, punctuated by
whoops from the Oriel contingent.

"Jack Harcourt, the President, got up to introduce
Rowena. 'And I'd like to thank the Secretary very much

indeed for that speech, and it now gives me great pleasure-'
'Oh, Jesus, no,' Chris said.

' - to call upon Rowena Gordon, Christ Church '

Other people were noticing it now. Murmurs and
laughter started to bubble through the chamber.

' - Librarian, to come and oppose the motion.'

Rowena mustered a brilliant' smile and got to her feet,
making her way to the dispatch box.

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then the
chamber erupted into the loudest roar of cheers and
applause Rowena had ever heard. She smiled, bewildered.
Not even Gary Lineker had had this enthusiastic a reaction.
People were yelling, smiling, drumming their feet on the
floor. She smiled again. They were going insane.

Then she saw Gilbert's smug grin and Chris'.s stricken


42

expression. Oh my God, she thought.

She glanced down at herself, and time seemed to freeze,
and then pool like treacle.

Her strapless dress had slipped; the bodice was hanging
down, useless, at the waist. She was standing semi-naked at
the podium, displaying her breasts to the entire chamber.

Afraid she might faint, Rowena grabbed at her wrap and
pulled it across her chest, clutching on to it for dear life. The
cheers had by now turned into roars of laughter; a thousand
students all clapping and whistling. Everybody on the
Gordon slate just wanted to die. Of all the ways to lose an
election...

In the gallery, Topaz, jolted out of her daydreams, had
started to cry from shock and compassion.

Peter Kennedy was quietly beside himself. Those perfect
little exposed breasts had given him a rock-solid erection.

Rowena stood frozen at the centre of the storm, paralysed
like a rabbit in the glare of headlights. She felt hot tears
prickling at the back of her eyes, nausea welling in her
throat. She would never live this down as long as she stayed
at Oxford.

The cheering went on and on.

Why don't they shut up? Rowena screamed silently. What
are they waiting for? Then she realized. They were waiting for
her to burst into the inevitable tears and run from the
chamber. She looked at Gilbert Docker, who shot her a
triumphant smile of pure malice. Something inside her
snapped back into place. Still clutching at her wrap with her
left hand, she raised her right hand for quiet, and, surprised,
the audience shut up.

Rowena waited until she had tbtal silence, and then she
smiled. 'Well, Mr President,' she said in a loud, clear voice,
'there's only one lesson to be learnt from what just
happened - and that is that the Proposition should watch
themselves.'

She took a step forward. All eyes were now fixed on her.
'Be warned,' she went on, turning dramatically to Gilbert,
still grinning. 'Because for those of us on this side of the'

43


House, no sacrifice is too dramatic, no humiliation is too
great, to win this bloody motion!' and she laughed.

The chamber erupted again, but there was a different
quality to this applause. As the bravery of what she had just
done sank in, people started to rise from their seats, and all
of a sudden she had a standing ovation. Rowena wasn't
finished yet, though. Still covered by her wrap, she pulled
up her bodice with her free hand and held it against her.
Then she let the wrap fall.

'Mr President,' she said loudly, 'if- given the appalling
s[eech the honourable Secretary just made- it isn't against
his principles to assist a woman, I wonder if Mr Docker
would give me some help with my zip? I seem to be having a
little trouble with it.'

And she immediately turned round, presenting her back

to a helpless Gilbert, who got up and fastened his rival's
dress, boot-faced with anger.

Chris, Topaz and Nick led a fresh round of cheering.


By the time the debate was over it was the middle of the
night and rain was thundering down in the Union gardens.
Students spilled out into the street, rushing back to their
colleges or sordid digs, or attempting to shove themselves
into the sardine-like Union bar for last orders. Baby hacks
from the Secretary's committee stood outside in the
downpour, arguing furiously over whether Rowena had
done it on purpose. She had gone on to deliver a moving,
passionate speech, and had won the motion by a huge
margin.

'We'll still win the fucking election,' Gilbert Docker
snapped at Chris Johnson on the way out.

Chris just laughed in his face. He'd already had the
pleasure of turning down Gilbert's Treasurer candidate,
who'd rather pathetically tried to switch sides.

Topaz cannoned out of the chamber, whooping, kissed
Rowena, and ran in the other direction.

'Hey, where are you going?' she yelled.

'Cherwell,' Topaz shouted back at her. Tve been dying to


44

get on that computer since the second you sat down! What a
story, girl! I'll have you on the front page!'

'OK, if you say so,' Rowena shouted at her friend's
departing back.

It was true, it was a great story, and Topaz had been so
wrapped up in it she didn't notice the way Peter had
stiffened beside her when she hugged him in elation.

Rowena, utterly euphoric, accepted congratulations and
pumped hands like a dutiful hack for an hour and a half
before slipping back to her tiny digs in Merton Sreet, hardly
noticing the soaking rain.


In the Cherwell offices, Topaz flicked on the lights and
turned on her Apple, trying out a few headlines. Everything

came up Sun-speak: 'MAY THE BREAST WOMAN WIN,'

'gORDOq qqETT!' 'TRE^SUr CHEST!' Topaz laughed
out loud. Maybe it was time for a break from the quality
tradition, "after all! She tapped in a huge headline:
BREAST FOOT FORWARD, and lit a cigarette.

'You thought you'd seen it all before,' Topaz typed away,
'until last Thursday's sensational speech by Rowena
Gordon, 34-22-32 (obviously).'

Around her, the empty Cherwell offices were quiet and
deserted, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the
computer and her own breathing. She enjoyed a brief
fantasy about how different it would be in a year's time,
working on a real paper in London.

Topaz felt contentment seep through her. Rowena would
be President of the Union. She would get to be a journalist- The Times, no less, and maybe, just maybe, Mrs Peter
Kennedy, too.


Peter bawled Gilbert out.

'It's not my fault,' he whimpered for the hundredth time.

'Look,' Kennedy snapped, losing his temper, 'just go
home, OK, Docker. I'm going to sort it out'now.'

'There's nothing you can do,' Gilbert whined, and then,
seeing Peter's face, thought better of it.


45

Peter started to walk towards Merton Street. Christ
Almighty, why did he always have to do everything
himself?.

Rowena sat in her study sipping a cup of weak tea and
watching the fire crackle in the grate. She was comfortable
and warm in her thick soft towelling bathrobe, her half-dry
blonde hair hanging fresh and glowing around her
shoulders. The summer rain drummed against the dark
skylight; through the streaming glass she could see the

slippery, melting lights of the stars.

She was far too excited to sleep.

She glanced at the faded article on David Geffen, pinned
over the bed. When she was President, she'd be able to
invite him over to speak . . . She was still fantasizing about
what she'd say when they were introduced when the
doorbell rahg.

'Let yourself in, sweetheart,' she called to Topaz.

'That was a warmer welcome than I expected,' Peter
Kennedy said, ducking his head as he stepped into the room.

Rowena shot out of her chair, belting her robe even
tighter around her. 'What are you doing here?'

'You asked me in, I believe,' said Peter calmly, shutting
the door behind him and offering her a cigarette. She
declined; he shrugged and lit up. 'It was a good speech, if I
may say so. Very gutsy of you to carry on.'

'Thank you,' said Rowena, relaxing slightly. She
couldn't help it, she was glad to see him. Peter hadn't come
round since that kiss at the Union Ball a week ago. Who
don't I trust? Rowena asked herself. Him, or me?

'It was that or give up on the' whole thing, and nothing
would persuade me to do that. I've got a duty to the other
guys on the slate, anyway.'

He took a long drag on his cigarette. 'Nothing could
persuade you to drop out?'

'Nothing,' said Rowena, wary again. There were only
two reasons, in this university, for someone like Kennedy
to be in her rooms at this hour: sex or politics. And he was
still dating her best friend, so it couldn't be the former. 'Tell


46

me what I can do for you, Peter.'

'I want you to withdraw from the election.'

Rowena leant back, and took another sip of her tea. She
was surprised, but not shocked; she'd seen too much of this
stuff, treachery, indecision, switching sides, on her way up
the ladder, to be taken aback now. Plenty of it had been
last-minute, too. She wondered for a second if Topaz had
known, and then dismissed that idea: Topaz was her closest
friend. This was a blow, when it looked as if she had
everything wrapped up, but it wasn't all that serious. She
doubted even Peter Kennedy could save Gilbert now, not
after this evening's triumph.

'I have no intention of doing any such thing, I'm afraid,'
she said coolly. 'I rather thought you were supporting me,
Peter.'

'Then you thought wrong,' Kennedy said with equal
coldness.

'Does Topaz know you're here?' Rowena asked. Her
heart was hammering now. Why had Peter come? Why had
he switched sides again? Because she'd turned him down?

She looked at the handsome face, the muscular body, the
golden hair soaked from the rain. She didn't want him to be
angry with her. She wanted him to like her.

'I can't go back on my word to Gilbert,' Peter said,
furiously. 'Why can't you see that? Why are you making me
feel like this?'

'You gave your word to me, too,' Rowena answered. He
looked so angry and guilty and mixed-up. She knew he was
battling with himself to sort out his motives, do the right
thing. She was stupidly pleased by it, that the way he felt
about her had confused him. A small ache of lust began to
gather inside her.

'I know,' Kennedy said. The sapphire eyes stared directly
at her. 'I should never have said it. I couldn't help myself.'

For the second time that evening Rowena felt time slow
down around her. For a few seconds she didn't reply, and
they listened to the fire crackling in the grate and the
gathering storm outside, the wind moaning across the"

47


Elizabethan gables of the house.

Finally she asked, 'What do you mean?'

Her heart was hammering in her chest, her mouth was
dry, waiting for his answer.

Peter reached out tenderly and stroked her cheek. 'You
know exactly what I mean,' he said. 'Tell me I was wrong.
Tell me you have no feelings for me. That you don't think
about me. That I can never be more to you than your
friend's boyfriend.'

Overcome with desire, Rowena was silent. His touch on
her skin sent a small, burning ribbon of heat down between
her legs.

'Tell me any of those things,' he said, 'and I'll leave.'
For a split second Rowena remembered Topaz telling her
how much Peter meant to her. How she'd stay in England
because of him.

Then she looked again at the handsome, aristocratic face,
the hard, masculine body, and the way he was watching
her, and put the thought out of her mind.

'No,' she said. 'You weren't wrong.'

48


Chapter Five


Lifc seemed to carry on as uormal.

In the run-up to the clcctiou, Rowcna was as ordered and
focused as she'd always been: drawiug up college lists,
orgauizing secret car ruus to carry friendly voters in from
arouud the city, plauuiug speeches and working parties and
makiug sure everybody ou the slate did the same. Peter was
dcfiuitely stickiug with Gilbert and they had to work twice
as hard. This would be close.
The toul'ists who crowded into Oxford this summer like
every other would have been amazed if they could have seen
what was going on behind the bicycles, the billowing
academic gowus, and the spires and turrets and champagne
picnics - a dirty, bitter struggle for power that would have
done credit to a Cougressional race. The public schoolboys
were going to fight for their turf, and Rowena's assortmeut
of non-privileged candidates couldn't afford to underestimate
them.

They had allies, of course. Ckerwell for one, which had
supported thcm all term. Colleges of their owu. Kids that
turned up to debates regularly. Anyone who had heard
about Rowcna's performance in the debate.

But to the other side, merit di&i't mattcr. A socialist idea.
Gilbert u;amed to be President, so he should be. Support the
old school. His father's regiment. His mother's receptious.
All the old, solid things that had been certaiu fifty years ago and in the late eighties meant absolutely nothing - except to
the disiuherited youth which liked to preteud that they did.

Words were had in the appropriate places. The Gridiron
Club. Vincent's, where Oxford sporting Blues with match'

49


ing blue blood liked to get very druuk on flue port. The
Disraeli Society. And all the older, established colleges,
which despite their PR to the outside world liked things
exactly the way they had always bceu - Oriel, Lincoln,
Jesus, Balliol, Queen's, and especially Trinity. Only Christ
Church held back. Rowena was one of their own.

And that was what really got the boys going. Because
Rowena was being defiant. Charles Gordon's daughter,
educated at St Mary's, Ascot, she should have known
better. Gilbert and Peter could hay6 arranged the Presidency
for her next term. But she still insisted on fighting them.
And on pickiug her own team.

It was obvious that Gordou was walking away from the
whole deal. She had hung around with that brash American
practically since she came up. She talked loudly about going

.

into the music industry, of all things.
She was a feminist.
She was a traitor.

They would teach her a lesson.

If Gilbert Docker could have seeu underneath the cool
mask Rowena was presenting to Oxford, he might have
rlaxcd a little. At the moment, with all the orgauizing and
whispering and trading of favours he could pull off, the
relentless work of the other slate still put them ahead, and

most people saw Rowena herself as their greatest strength.
They didu't know what Peter Kennedy did.
Rowena Gordon was out of control.


She gasped. Peter's hands had moved from her thighs to her
nipples, brushing her skin with' the feathcrlight touch he
knew fired her up most. She was slippery wet betwecu the
legs, loving bow he felt iuside her, his cock pushing deeper
and deeper into the quick heart of her pleasure, his gentle
rhythm never faltering, never lctting up, scuding a light,
sweet orgasm rippling across her stomach, and then another
a fcw minutcs later, just enough prcssurc for one or two
contractions, keeping her hot, ucvcr ]ctting her reach the
final climax.

50


'It's not so bad, is it?' Peter teased. 'Sleeping with the
enemy?'

'I'm Mata Hari,' Rowcna mauagcd. 'Usiug you.'

He gave a low, confident chuckle and auswered her with
an exquisite little twist of the hips, stroking her inside her
body, letting her respouse speak for itself.

Rowcua moaned with pleasure. This close to orgasm, she
forgot all the other emotions that crowded into her mind
whenever Peter came round. The guilt. The jealousy,
because he was still seeing Topaz. The shame, at not being
able to dismiss him. And the bittersweet joy at seeing him
again.

Every time, Rowcna said it was the last.

It never was.

She was simply no match for him. Closed away in a
convcut school, a virgiu, faintly contemptuous of boys,
Rowcua had never come across anyone who called to her
body like Peter did. She had been a cold girl, determined,
closed-off, proud; Topaz Rossi had been the first really close
friend she'd had. For the sake of that friendship, she'd tried
to hide her feelings. She'd even turned Peter down at the
ball.

It wasn't enough. Her desire was too strong.

She drew back from Topaz, refusing to admit to herself
what she was doing. After all, there were a thousand
excuses. Topaz was all wroug for Peter. Too brazen. Too
forcigu. Too poor. And she was perfect: from the same
country, the same background, the same class. Kennedy
was a gentleman, she was a lady. Prejudices which Rowena
had fought against all her life, which she'd always despised,
she started using to convince herself of what she uccded to
believe. She became cold and distant when Topaz tried to
talk to her. Told herself the friendship was a mismatch from
the start.

'Do it again,' Rowena said, intently. Her nipples were
throbbing with pleasure. 'Again. Now.'

'You're good,' Peter whispered, excited. It was true. She
was a uatural at sex. She loved it. The way she leapt under


5

his touch aroused him. She responded to every tiny caress,

every hot glance, every touch of his fingers.
Even that first time, she had come.
Cold, haughty Rowena Gordon.

Kennedy grinned to himself, thrusting deeper into her.
Life was full of surprises.


Topaz Rossi walked along Broad Street, heading towards
Christ Church. She was in a good mood. Unlike all the
English kids who took it for granted, the beauty of Oxford
always enchanted her. Compared with small-town New
Jersey, this is another planet, she thought, looking across at
the wrought-iron gates protecting Trinity's immaculate
gardens, the spectacular busts of the Roman emperors
ringed round the entrance to the Sheldonian Theatre.

Some scholars cycled past her, long black robes billowing
out behind them, on their way to Blackwell's, the university's
bookstore of choice. She smiled, wondering whether
they were picking up obscure textbooks or a sex-packed
trashy novel. One of the things Topaz liked best about
studying here was that it could just as easily be either.

"She turned down towards the main Hertford entrance,
glancing into the courtyard of the Bodleian, Oxford's main
library and one of the finest in the world. Topaz walked
around there sometimes just for the sheer beauty of it, but
you couldn't take out books there, so she didn't use it often.
She was a modern girl. She preferred to study in her rooms,
where she could make a cup of coffee and listen to Aretha
Franklin.

A couple of young Cherwell wannabes waved hi to her.
They were assigned to the arts pages, covering some new
student production at the Playhouse.

'How's the report going?' she asked.

'Well,' the younger girl replied. 'Looks like a couple of
West End scouts were in the audience last night. I want to
interview Mary Jackson, since she's directing.'

'What she means is, she wants a part in the next one,' her
friend said, grinning. The other girl hit her.


52

'As long as we get our story,' Topaz told them, feeling
extremely grown-up. She wasn't in the mood to rain on
anybody's parade just now. She was on her way to surprise

Peter, she couldn't wait to see him. Life was good.

The two girls waved and walked away.

Topaz pushed back her mass of red curls from her face,
enjoying the easy camaraderie of the moment. Some
American kids had a tough time here; not understanding the
dry English teasing, they left Oxford convinced that the
natives hated all foreigners with a passion and Americans in
particular. Topaz knew better.

'Or maybe Rowena's just blinded me to their faults, she
thought.

Or maybe Peter has.

Her skin still felt warm where he'd caressed it that
morning. Where he'd licked off the champagne. 'A congratulations
present,' he'd said, 'for finishing your second
article for national paper.'

It was a good article, too. She'd submit it as Soon as the
first one had been published, after the elections. Rowcna
would be thrilled, once she was a bit less nervous and
stressed-out. She'd been acting weird lately.

Topaz paused for a second at the top of Oriel Square, the
back entrance into Peter's college, thinking about her
article, her lover and her friend, letting it all sbimnaer round
her head. The soft warmth of the sunshine beat down on the
nape of her neck. She felt like she was taking a bath in pure
happiness.


Rowena felt the fist in her chest again. Like she couldn't
breathe, certainly couldn't cry. Agut reaction, probably, to
help her kccp control.

'We have to stop,' she said bleakly. 'I shouldn't have done
this.'

Peter offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head.
'But you did do it,' he said.

A sense of power came to him. That every time he
could overcome her scruples, her conscience, whatcverl


53

It appealed strongly to his vanity to know that he could fuck

both Topaz Rossi and Rowena Gordon in the same day.

Not that Rowena knew that, of course. But she knew he

was still seeing her best friend. And that counted.

Tve told you before, I have to let Topaz down gently,' he
continued. 'I thought we'd agreed on that.'

Rowena was silent, staring at the wall. Shame and
heartache and restless desire were all mixed up inside her.

'What is it? The election?' Peter demanded. 'You know

how I feel. I have to keep my word. What we have together

is nothing to do with politics.'

She shook her head, no. They both knew that the sex was

better because they were opponents. It added another edge.

'What about your word to Topaz?'

'You said it was the last time yesterday,' he reminded her
cruelly.

Rowena flushed. It was true. Yet again she'd given in;
partly as a result of her deep craving for him, partly because
he'd refused to let up. He'd climbed up the drainpipe outside
her window, sent her two dozen red roses and a bottle of
vintage champagne. He'd sat next to her at every meal in
Hall. Waited for her in the porters' lodge when she came to
get her morning post. He had been as insistent as a Sherman
tank and as romantic as Lord Byron. It was almost a relief to
give in to him, to let him do what she longed for him to do.

We're at the same college, Rowena thought. I can't get

away from him.

Out loud, she said, 'I mean it. This isn't about not hurting
Topaz. It's about you refusing to give either of us up.' She
wanted to cry.

'You're the one I want,' Peter said carefully, hearing a

new note in her voice. He took her in his arms.

Despite herself, Rowena felt too weak to resist. She
wanted him to comfort her. To tell her he loved her, that it
would all be OK.

'Topaz is my best friend,' she said. A fresh wave of shame

beat up in her. How could she say that? She'd sneered at her,
despised her, pulled rank on her, the works. All .because

Topaz had done the uuforgivable thing. She'd been betrayed.
And Rowena had let a guilty person's dislike for
their victim take over.

Peter looked dowu at the sexy, lithe body, stiff in his
arms. At those full lips set dead agaiust him, strong with
rejection.

Neither of them noticed the door swing open. Neither of
them saw they were beiug watched.

'What are you talking about?' he said. 'You were the
person who told me the whole thing was crazy. A hick from
New Jersey and a girl like you. She wouldn't even help you
with me, remember? I seem to recall you told me last night
you'd break ifoffafter the election. She does edit Cherwell, after all.'

He touched her cheek, softly. 'Dou't blame Topaz Rossi
for what you feel about me. She doesn't matter to you.
Dou't try and hide behind that. You owe me better.'

'Hide what?' Rowena murmured. The smell of him, the
nearness of him. She wanted to cling to him. She didn't
want to let him go.

'The fact that you don't love me,' Peter said.

'That's not true.'

There was a pause, while he sensed her sexual heat
blossom again.

'Show me,' he said, and Rowena, with a little sob of
capitulation, lifted her lips to his.


At the door, Topaz found her eyes had brimmed over with
tears, so she could hardly see. She blinked, and felt the salt
water roll away down her cheeks. In total silence, she
backed into the corridor.

Neither of them noticed her go.


The Cherwell offices were crammed. It was Wednesday, the
final review meeting day for copy. Everything had to be
filed by Thursday afternoon and they went to print that
night. The atmosphere was fun, a cocktail of apprehension:
excitement, moalfing about the work. Seventh week of


55

Trinity Term was going to be a thick edition, too. There
was sports news from the rowing, gossip from the various
college balls, a bundle of recruitment ads, advice on the final
examinations for unfortunate third and fourth years, and, of
course, the Union elections. And that didn't even touch on
the features: benefits, computing and the city homeless.
Students were jamming the place. It was a good paper to
write for, a good thing to put on the r6sum6. And, since
Topaz Rossi had taken over, everybody read it. Shock and
amaze your friends! They were future media barons. They
were ready to go.

People stopped chattering when Topaz and Sebastien
walked in together. The editors had that kind of presence:
good for a laugh, motivational, fun to work with, but you
shut up when they told you to. Topaz never settled for

second-rate writing, photography or design.

You got it right, or you were out.

'OK', Topaz said. She was wearing a sexy outfit, a cutoff
black tank top that emphasized her magnificent breasts
and bared her flat midriff, teamed with low-slung black
5oI's which hugged her ass. Her red hair was wound into a
c6il and piled loosely on the top of her head, letting a few
rebellious strands swing round her temples. Uncharacteristically,
she was also wearing make-up: a dash ofcolour on
her high cheekbones, soft brown eyeshadow, an inviting
pink lipstick. Long chain earrings swung from her lobes,
following every movement of her head. Her eggshell-blue
eyes were sparkling with fierce determination.

Half the male journos in the room found they didn't
know where to look.

'We've got one major change this week,' Topaz said. Her
Italian-American accent seemed more pronounced than
ususal. 'Roger Walpole, I'm afraid it affects you.'

Roger, sitting in one of the comfortable black chairs,
looked across at her. 'What's up?' he asked. 'You didn't like
the piece?'

He'd been writing the lead story on a Student Union plot
to increase the price of alcohol, a matter of concern to every


56

undergraduate in the city, if not a personal tragedy. It would
have been a terrific headline.

'No, it's superb, as usual,' Topaz smiled. 'It's going on
the front page. But we're running a new lead. I've written
it.'

A murmur of surprise ran round the room. 'About what?'
somebody asked.

Topaz paused for effect, feeling the white-hot rage, the
burning satisfaction of a tiny measure of revenge.

'About Rowena Gordon's candidacy for President of the
Union.'

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'

59


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

PART TWO - RIVALS

Chapter Six


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.'


63

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. T-shirts 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


64

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'


65

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.

66


'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.

'A talent scout, of course,' Oberman snapped. 'What do
you think?'


The first day Rowena walked through the doors of Musica
Records as an employee was one of the happiest of her life.
She took one look at the futuristic lobby, its black leather
and polished chrome, the young, hip sccrctarics strolling in
and out of reception with their T-shirts and attitude, and the
wall-mounted TVs pumping out music videos, and knew
she'd found her vocation.

Nothing could dent her mood. Not the surly, prim
womaa in Personnel who filled out her details and insisted
on calling'the president's office to get confirmation that
Rowena wasn't making it up; not the way the other A&R
scouts refused even a pretence of friendliness to the new
competition when she was being shown round; not even her
tiny cubbyhole of an office, or the minute amount of money
she'd be getting paid, which meant she'd still have to keep
her seedy apartment.

Rowena was preparcd to sweat blood for Musica Records.
They had given her a chance.

'Hi, welcome to the team,' said Matthew Stevenson,
with a total lack of enthusiasm. 'Have a seat.'
He waved Rowena to a cavernous armchair in soft
buttery leather at one corner of his huge office. Sun came
streaming through the windows verlooking the Thames,
illuminating the state-of-the-art stereo system and the
framed gold and platinum discs that covered the walls.

'I'm the head of A&R, or Artists and Repertoire,'
Stevenson said, sighing. He was a fat, bald, hook-nosed
industry veteran and he liked to pick his own scouts. But
Oberman got what Obcrman wantcd, and he'd taken a
shine to this girl.


67

Stevenson had seen it happen before: some kid would
impress Josh at a concert or write him a good pitch letter and
Oberman, always hungry to discover a new David Geffen,
would stick them in Marketing or International and there
was nothing anyone could do about it. They usually lasted a
few months, maybe even a year, and then lost interest and
quit or got fired after a decent interval. He was sure this girl
would go the same way. But what could he do about it? The
old man was capricious.

'That means we try and sign talented bands to the label,

and then we help them develop repertoire, i.e. songs. That
used to mean we'd choose songs for them to cover, but
these days it mostly involves helping a band choose the right
producer. Is that clear?'

Rowena nodded eagerly. She knew all this stuff backwards,
of course, but she didn't want to look cocky.

'Your job,' her boss continued, 'is to listen to tapes the
hopefuls send in, mail them back with a rejection letter, and
go out at night looking for bands.'

'But what if someone sends in a good tape?'

'If they're good, they play live. Someone has heard of
tlSem. They have a manager. Understand?'

Rowena crossed her legs. She didn't want to annoy her

new boss, but she couldn't help herself. 'Then why do we
bother listening to them at all?'

'Just in case I'm wrong,' Stevenson answered with an
unpleasant grin, and held out a clammy hand. 'Welcome to
the music business.'


He wasn't wrong. After three days, Rowena was quite clear
on that point. Every morning, the secretary she shared with
four other scouts dragged a huge sackful of tapes into her
cubbyhole and left Rowena staring at them in dismay. At
first, wanting to be fair on everybody, she listened to half of
each tape. When she discovered that one sack was replaced
by two, and two by three, as she made no inroads at all on
the mountain of work, she cut it back to one song.
Eventually, Jack Reich, the scout who worked next to her,

68


ears. 'Thirty seconds, OK? Thirty seconds. You've got
hundreds of these suckers to go through, and all the
paperwork, and all the bands that are serious enough to
actually play gigs. Ninety per cent of these acts you're
making notes about have split up by now.'

He grabbed the tape she was listening to and held it up.
'See the date of that? September. Five months ago. That's

how long it takes to get round to unsolicited tapes.'
'Thirty seconds?' Rowena repeated.
'Thirty seconds,' Jack insisted 'is generous.'

He wasn't kidding. Rowena was getting disillusioned
about musicians. She'd had no idea how much bad music it
was possible to make until she started looking for a band
good enough to invest in. Her days were filled with tape
after tape of utter rubbish - people would submit tapes of
themselves'singing along to Karaoke machines. Her nights
were filled with long, backbreaking drives around the
country, watching a succession of lacklustre singers and
laughably dreadful rock bands. She got to know every
mildewed, dank little club from Oxford to Truro, and as the
lowest scout on the totem pole she was never allowed
within ten feet of more juicy chances.

It was difficult to make friends at work. Jack Reich treated
her kindly, but he was an A&R manager with three signed
acts, and always busy. The other scouts, all male and all
younger than herself, refuged to give her the time of day.
The secretaries made it clear that they preferred flirting with
the boys to typing up her paperwork, and Matthew
Stevenson called by her office every week like a circling
vulture, Rowena thought, itching to sack her.

'Found anything yet?' he'd smirk, and she'd have to say,
'No, not yet.'

God, she really wanted to! It was heartbreaking! Here she
was, a rock fan, a music junkie, and now a talent scout for a
major label, pleading, begging to be impressed. And she
saw or heard hundreds of bands a month, all of.whom were

69


begging her to be impressed by them.

But she couldn't. She couldn't do it. There was no answer

to Matthew, because everything she checked out was so
awful, every song was so dire.

She ploughed on, feeling more and more isolated and
depressed. Maybe she should forget the whole thing,
become a lawyer. Maybe there was a talent drought in
Britain. Maybe there was nothing to find.

And then she stumbled across Atomic Mass.

to

Chapter Seven


Topaz was miserable. It was not supposed to turn out like
this, she told herself for the millionth time as she huddled
over the street brazier, frozen to the marrow of her bones.
There is nothing on God's earth so cold as a New York
winter, and Topaz Rossi was catching the full brunt of it.

She stared across the river of grimy traffic, crawling
though the slush, at the marbled Fifth Avenue skyscraper
from which David Levine obstinately refused to appear.
Persistence,oTopaz told herself, persistence is 99 per cent of
what makes a good reporter. True, she could duck into
Rockefeller Plaza and grab a cup of hot chocolate - with
whisky- and a slice of warm sachertorte. But if she did, and
God knows she was longing to, it was a hundred to one on
that Levine would choose that exact moment to appear and
she'd lose her shot at an interview with the hottest film star
on the planet. Not to mention her]ob.

Topaz stuck her hands into the pockets of her snug black
leans, cut to show offevery curve of her magnificently pert
ass. She may have felt like shit, but she looked like a million
dollars, even if the tips of her ears were so cold they matched
her lipstick. The guy selling chestnuts on the brazier raked
over the coals some more, in the hope .that it'd be warm
enough to keep this incredible babe standing there for]ust a
bit longer. Maybe if he got reall) lucky, she'd stamp her feet
again to warm up, because when she did that she jiggled
slightly under the clinging cashmere]acket, showing him a
little bit of paradise right here on earth. He wondered, not
for the first time, who she was waiting for. If it was a guy,
he was one hell of a lucky sonofabitch.

71


Topaz let her mind drift back as to why she was there,
answering her own questions as usual. This might be a cold
fucking assignment but it was a lot better than none at all.
She had a vision ofherselfjust three months ago, clutching a
smart little leather folder full of neatly mounted examples of
her work on Cherwell and letters of recommendation from
her tutors, hawking herself around the New York magazine

houses until her feet bled. It was the same story everywhere.
'I'm sorry, we have nothing for you.'

'You do need some experience towrite for the New Yorker, kid. Sorry to have to break it to ya.'

'We have no vacancies at this time.'
'He's in a meeting.'
'She,s in a meeting.'
'He's still in a meeting.'

'What is this stuff?. You're bringing me stufffrom school? We're a national publications group, Ms Rossi. If you don't
realize that this isn't good enough without me telling you,
you aren't cut out to be a journalist,' said Nathan Rosen, not
unkindly.

Topaz felt as though two or three big rocks were sitting
leaden in her stomach. It was her sixth interview of the day.

'I was commissioned to write a piece on student benefits
for the London Times once,' she murmured miserably.

Rosen brightened. 'Well, that's different. I'd like to see
the piece, you got it with you?'

She shook her head. 'It didn't come off.'
Rosen looked at her sceptically.

Rowena Gordon, I hope you rot in the hottest corner of
hell, Topaz thought, suddenly' pierced with a white-hot
anger. She pushed back her chair.

'Mr Rosen, I'm obviously not suited for Westside. Thank
you for seeing me. I won't waste any more of your time.'

Hey, hey, wait up,' Rosen said softly. 'I.didn't say you
could go. One of the juniors in entertainment is offsick this
month. You'd be pasting, setting, making coffee,
typing.., it's pretty menial stuff, but it's a way in. You
want the job?'

72


No I don't want the lob Topaz scrcamcd sileutly. 1'111 the
most intell(ent goddamned woman that ever set foot in your
stinking rathole q.'ce, and I'm nobod),'s.fitcking gqfi'r!

It was the only thing she'd been offered in more than a
hundred interviews.

'What's the pay like?'

'It's shit,' said Nathan Rosen.

Tll take it,' said Topaz.

For the next two weeks she seemed to run ou adreualin,
substituting the electric atmosphere of the office for more
normal human fuels like food and sleep. She lost weight and
lcarut how to gulp down a cup of coffee whilst ruuning
from the art department to the uewsdesk with six differeut
layouts in her hand. She typed up articles, corrected
spelliugs, pasted photographs on to mockups, checked up
ou facts for investigative pieces. She made coffee, typed
letters, photocopied headlines and hated herself. She
suggested cptions and ideas to the journalists and felt she

was making a mark. She pushed herself in everyone's face.
The first Saturday Topaz had off, she slept all day.

She learnt quickly because she had a fast eye and instincts
about people. Jason Richman was writing a piece on the
weirdest food in New York? Topaz had seen a guy selling
chocolate pizza off West 4th Street. Josie Simous complained
at the top of her voice that there was no one in the
whole world with a fresh take on rock 'n' roll, and Topaz
suggested she interview the doorman at CBGB's. Josh
Stein, the art director, couldu't fit a long headline on to a
page? Splice it across th.e diagonal, maybe, said Topaz.
Write the article around it.

'I need a title for this piece!' bllowed Nathan Rosen
across the: features desk, drowning out the incessant whirr
of telephones, voices and computer typewriters.

'What's it on?' asked Elise DeLuca, the deputy features
editor.

'Modern art at the Met . . . Heury Kravis is thinking of
endowing a natioual collectiou Of American avautgarde
stuff- its the lead story next week,' Rosen yelled. 'Biggest

73


thing sinccJ. P. Getty got the paiuting bug.'
'Modern Masters,' said Elisc.
'The Tate comes to NYC.'
'New York, New Pictures.'
'Cutting-Edge Kravis.'

'All of those suck. They suck!' bellowed Roseu. 'All I'm
asking for is one good goddamned line!'

'How about "State of the Art, Art of the btate .
murmured Topaz, passing his desk with two armfuls of
photocopies.

Rosen looked at her. 'That's good. I'll use that,' he said
quietly.

Later in the afteruoon Roseu stopped by her desk, where

she was typiug up sonic hack's drastically edited play
review for scttiug. 'See if you can do something with this
one, Rossi,' he said, trying not to stare at the beautiful firm
young cleavage positioned directly under his nose. 'I got
two pages in the business section on Hiagcn-l)azs ice cream
and how good it's doing in Europe- four hundred per cent
growth a year, stufflikc that.'

'I'm uot surprised,' said Topaz, rememberiug the
lqfiagcu-1)azs car6 in Cornmarkct and how it was full of undergraduates even in l)cccmber.

'Yeah, well. This is a real smart piece of busiuess
reporting but it's just that- business. I'd like to get some feel
of ice cream in there, remind people what HiagenDazs
tastes like. Associatiou makes the figures a lot more
iutcrcsting. So.'

He held up a sheet with the article, entitled 'HiagenDazs
Spearheads Growth of Upmarket Snacks'. It was one and
three-quarter pages of close text, with a tub of rum-raisin
filliug the upper left-hand corucr of the second sheet.

'I need a killcr caption for the packshot,' said Rosen.
'OK. Gimmejust a second,' said Topaz. She had the liue
already, she'd thought of it the moment he explained the
article, but she wanted to bask in Nathan Roseu's presence
for a few more seconds. Hey, any junior would be flattered
to have the editor by their desk. The fact that he was so

74


good-looking had nothing to do with it.

'No hurry,' said Rosen impatiently.

'Well,' said Topaz slowly, 'how about if you put
"Hfiagen-Dazs: uot so much of an ice cream, more of a
religious experience." '

'Could you say that again?' asked Nathan Rosen, woudcring
if he could have heard her right.

'Not so much of an ice cream, more of a religious
experience,' Topaz repeated.

Nathan pulled himself together. The senteuce was perfect.
'OK. Let me get a few other suggestions. You make
sure you stop by nay office when you get offwork today.'

'Whatever you say, boss,' Topaz smiled. I'm,qetting there, she thought. 'You won't get a better Caption than that one!'
she shouted after his retreating back.

The editorial rooms of Westside were quieter by 8 p.m.;
there were still a few journalists hunched over their
consoles, t'acs lit by the flickering screens, who might well
be slaving over their pieces till one or two in the morning.
Topaz heard a telephone ring in the art dcpartmeut, a fax
machiue whirr on the newsdesk. But basically the place was
emptying out. She felt slightly sick with excitement as she
looked at the editor's office, still flooded with golden light.
She was exhausted after another gruelling day; the job left
her feeliug like a human puuchbag.

Better check myself out first, Topaz told herself, slipping
into the ladies. Hardly the most luxurious restrooms in the
universe, at least they had adequate supplies of what she
needed most right now: lights and mirrors.

She glanced at her reflection, da.bbiug a little coverup
over the shadows under her eyes. Pretty. good. Her black
I)onna Karan tunic emphasized her large bust and tiny
waist, the latest stack mules made her calves look thinner,
there were a few loug curly red strands which had escaped
from her swept-back look, but that was cool; they looked
sexy, and they looked like she'd been working.

'Yes. I am a working girl. I am going to get a promotion,'
Topaz told herself, theu she took a deep breath, left the

75


ladies, and strode across the floor to Nathan Rosen's office.

Rosen watched her coming. She excited him every way
he looked at it. Day-to-day, she was a free-range magazine
improver and staff-energizer. Mentally, he felt a rush ofjoy
as one print man discovering another; looking at her, he saw
a female version of his younger self: all journalistic brilliance
and brass balls wrapped up in an intense love of the story
and how to tell it. She would make it in spades, and he
would be her guru. But physically - damn it! - he had
distinctly unpaternal feelings which refused to go away. He
watched the tight muscles of her ass rolling under her
clothes as she came across the room, her breasts rising and
falling, her legs clicking and pumping.., he felt that
treacherous tickle in his groin . . . God, look at the way she
moved when she walked! It was poetry, it was a symphony
to the beauty of the human female.

Stop it! Right now! Rosen lectured himself. She's

twenty-one years old, I'm thirty-nine. I could be her father.
Topaz knocked and came in, smiling.

My God, she's attractive, thought Rosen. 'Sit down,' he
said coldly.
Topaz sat.

'You're coming up with some good stuff, Topaz,' he
said, leaning forward. 'Really good. And I know you realize
this. I also know you realize that you're outperforming your
job description, and that you deserve a pay rise and a
promotion.'

Topaz nodded intently. This is it. I did it. He's gonna make
me a reporter.

'Well, you can have the pay rie,' Rosen said. 'But I'm not
gonna make you a reporter. That, you can forget. You've
only been here a month. You got five months to go before
I'll even consider it. And I don't want you making any
waves around the office - all the assistants are jealous
enough of you as it is and I can tell you right now, some of

the junior reporters feel threatened.'

'What?' said Topaz, bewildered.

'You gotta pay your dues and that's just the way it is. I'm

76


sorry if you don't like it. That's all. Congratulations on
your pay rise,' said Nathan bluntly, and turned to a file on
his desk in dismissal.

For a second there was silence, as Topaz was suffocated
with fury. But only for a second.

'Fuck that! Andfick you,' she spat. 'So that's it, huh? Six
months of typing from seven a.m. to eight p.m. so the other
secretaries can feel comfortable! How can you sit there and
tell me talent means nothing, pay your dues? You're scared
of your junior reporters? I'll tell you why they're threatened - because I prove every day out there that I can do what they
do better. You practically said so yourself. Who's the editor
here? You or them?'

'I am!' roared Rosen, out of his chair now and incensed. The , not you! And don't you ever forget it!'

He sat down again heavily, enraged. 'You listen to me,
Rossi,' he said. 'You're lucky I don't fire you on the spot' Topaz
went white- 'for the way you just spoke to me. I've
been running this ship for ten years and you've been here
five minutes. I've seen hotshots like you before, you come
in the door, put in long hours, come up with a couple of
snappy lines and you think you're RalphJ. Gleason. Well,
coming up with a title or a caption does not make a reporter.
You know what it makes? An advertising copywriter!' he
bellowed again. 'You wanna sell ice cream? Take a cab to
Madison Avenue!'

Topaz trembled. It was like standing directly in the path
of a ballistic missile.

Tm sorry,' she mumbled, and was appalled to hear her
voice quiver. Oh God, she panicked, I think I'm going to

cry.

Rosen looked at his prot6g6e, staring at her lap and
obviously terrified. He had been violently angry, but that
had passed and now he kind of admired her spirit. And she
looked so vulnerable. Part of him wanted to soothe her, kiss
her, stroke her hair. Part of him wanted to throw her over
the desk and fuck her right here in the office. Don't think
about that! Be fair. But be just.


77

'OK, look,' he said. 'I can't go ou with you like this, it's
disruptive. But you think I'm holding you back, you're as
good as the junior reporters . . . so. I'm giving you a chance
to prove it. David Levine has a meeting at the GE building
at three o'clock tomorrow, I got a tip-off, nobody else
knows. You know nobody's been able to get a comment
from him on this story that he hit a teacher at his kid's
school. Get a comment. You know where he'll be, follow
him, get a comment. You do, you get a promotion
and a secretary. Screw up, and you're out on your ass.
Understood?'

'Understood,' said Topaz, and now she was glowing.


David Levine emerged out of the General Electric building,
and across the street Topaz felt time, her heartbeat and the
revolution of the planets ground to a resounding halt. She
sucked in her breath. He was unmistakable even at this
distance; the golden hair that had introduced a generation of
American pubescent girls to their own sexuality glinted in
the thin winter light, and she could see his broad, tall frame and arrogantjawline from here. David Levine combined an
fitense, Jewish, Richard Gere-type sensuality with the
looks and physique of a Viking. Topaz had seen ten of his
movies herself. He was one of a handful of stars who could
'open' a movie nationwide; and now ugly rumours were
surfacing which could wreck his career if they were true.
Certain sussed journalists had heard that America's Mr
Romantic was a woman-beater, and had broken the nose of
his mistress, a young teacher at his son's primary school.
Not a word had appeared in priut. The woman was too
scared to talk. Levine was too powerful to libel.

Topaz felt for her Dictaphone recorder, securely in her
pocket, and dashed through the traffic. 'Mr Levine!' she
gasped, running up to him. 'Excuse me, sir?'

Levinc turned round, noticed a girl with a great-looking
bod'y in shades and a baseball cap, blushing furiously. He
gave hcra lazy smile. 'Hcy, swccthcart,' he said. 'Not too
loud. I don't want to get mobbed. Who shall I sign it to?'


78

He thinks I'm an autograph-hunter!

'Oh no, I'm not a fan,' she blurted. 'Well, I am a fan. It's
just- I mean, I'm a reporter.., you know, there's a story
going round that you hit a teacher. I was wondering if you
had any comment, you know, to clear your name?'

David Levine's greeu eyes had crystallized into chips of


'Get lost, you cheap whore,' he slurred. 'And you can tell
that tramp from me, if she's been talking...'

'What?' demanded Topaz. 'You'll finish the job?'

All of her nervousness had evaporated. She was right in
the middle of a breaking story, and this bastard was high.

Levine glared at her. 'Print a word of this, slut, and I'll sue

you to,kingdom come. I don't see a tape recorder.'

And he stepped into a swooping cab.

Topaz barely had time to register that he was right, she
hadn't had the Dictaphone switched on. She hailed the next
taxi in line. an you follow that car? And don't let the guy

know. '

'No problem, lady,' said the driver, pleased to have his
boring day livened up.

The cars tore through glittering Manhattan, weaving
through the traffic like it was water. Topaz stared out of the
window, at the mirrored skyscrapers jabbing into the sky
like accusing fingers, and raced through her information.
Number one, he was guilty as hell. Number two, he was on
some kind of drugs, and not totally together- maybe she
could get something past him. Number three, the way he
spoke, she'd bet her last dime the teacher was not the only
woman he'd hit . . .

Topaz thought for a second. Thn she took off her cap
and shades and stuffed them in her bag, unbuttoned her
jacket and unpinned her hair so that it fell round her
shoulders like a blazing waterfall. She loosened the top three
buttons on her shirt, took out her lipstick...


David Levinc relaxed some more. It was good cognac, good
coke and a nice club, the kind where people were too cool to


79

bother him. He'd screwed three more points on the gross
from them in the meeting today, and told a dyke reporter
where she could get off. And now he was here, talking to
Jo-Ann, some Texan chick with wide baby eyes, soft lips
and awesome tits. She had a good attitude, too. She
appreciated her luck in getting to sit with him. She was the
type that liked a strong man. He could hardly wait to stick it
to her.

' . . . though you prob'ly don't approve, being a New
Yorker,' she murmured, eyes downcast. 'Y'all are prob'ly
one of those feminists.'

She pronounced the word with a delicate distaste.
Levine roared with laughter. 'No, ma'am. No way.'
'Well, that's good to hear,' she said. 'I know I'm real old
fashioned, but I swear that's the way the good Lord
intended it to be. It tells us so in the Bible. I admire a man
who keeps discipline in his own house, although you don't
meet too many of those in this day and age.'

Levine wondered if she'd get offon being spanked before

he took her. Well, no matter, he was going to do it anyway.
The thought of her delicious Southern ass exposed across
his knees started to give him a hard-on.

'Well, you got one here, Jo-Ann,' he said. 'Last time my
ex-girlfriend decided to get out of line . . . let's just say she
never did it again.'

Topaz leant forward, pressing her breasts together, the
rolling Dictaphone whirring under her dress.

'My!' she purred. 'Why don't you tell me all about it?'

8o


Chapter Eight


The subway car was crammed, absolutely full to the brim.
Smart businessmen in crisp linen suits stood shoulder-to
shoulder with maintenance men in their overalls and
joggers in tight Lycra on their way home. Topaz didn't
mind; not even the fat Italian housewives clutching shopping
bags bothered her any more.
For the first couple of weeks, she'd felt uncomfortable,
wondering if all these big-city slickers could see through her
no-nonsensE jeans and trainers, her tight little skirts and
black briefcase. She'd felt transparent, like everybody could
tell by looking at her she shouldn't be here: Topaz Rossi, a
pushy kid from New Jersey, playing at being a journalist on
a big magazine. She imagined that everybody could tell she
was earning slave wages, living in a scuzzy walk-up on the
Lower East Side. Who was she kidding? Nobody'd be
fooled because she'd learnt to dress right. She was bound to
look gauche and awkward. To make a fool of herself.

Three weeks after that, she'd become neutral, tuning out
like everybody else.

Today, she was loving every minute of it.

The David Levine article, typed,, neatly laid out and over
eight thousand words long, was safely folded in her
briefcase, together with a copy of the tape of her interview.
She felt as though it must be burning a hole right through
the leather, this thing was so hot. It had taken her all night to
write it up, and it was worth every second. She didn't feel
tired. She felt young, and terrific, and bursting with energy.
She was on her way.

Topaz smoothed her skirt down on her hips,.oblivious to


8t

the admiring glances of the men around her. Her mind was
racing with plans, with exactly how she should present this

to her editor, with what she could get out of him in return.
Because this was it.
This was her big break.

Nathan Rosen had given her Mission Impossible, and
against all the odds she'd come through. Yeah, she mused,
he won't be expecting this. He wanted to punish me, show
me I'd been getting too big for my boots, that I couldn't
handle the stuffI was asking for. He probably expected me
to come see him a couple of days later, in tears, begging him
not to sack me. Topaz shook her beautiful head, sending her
earrings jangling about her throat. The scene wasn't gonna
play that way.

The train pulled up at 53rd Street and 7th, and Topaz
pushed out of the doors, looking forward to the walk to the
office. Several bored commuters admired her ass as she
strode purposefully up the escalator, enjoying the rare sight
of a girl with curves. Topaz had an hourglass figure, and she
refused to starve it into waiflike submission. If Kate Moss
wanted to look like a boy, fine. She doubted men like
'Nathan Rosen would look twice at Kate Moss.

Broadway glittered in the early morning sun as Topaz
stepped out of the station. The air was faintly humid and
warm, promising a baking hot day later on. She shivered
with pleasure, feeling enthusiasm and energy beat up out of
the streets towards her. Her sneakers seemed to bounce off
the pavement. Midtown Manhattan! Why shouldn't she love
it?

All the way to the American Magazines tower, Topaz
Rossi was bubbling with excitement. When you were
young and on your way, New York was the only place to
be, paying no attention to where you were from, just where
you were going.

And I, Topaz thought, pushing through the revolving
doors into the marble lobby, am going straight to the top.
No more Gino putting me down. No more Rowena
Gordon, stamping on me with her blue-blooded feet. No


82

more sons-of-bitches like Peter Kennedy tricking their way
into my pants. And no more assholes like Geoffrey Stevens
refusing to take my calls

'Topaz? Anybody home?' Jason Richman asked. 'God,
where are you at this morning? I called out to you three
times on the street, but you just walked right past with your
head in the clouds.'

She smiled at him apologetically as they both walked into
the elevator. 'Jase, I'm sorry. I had my mind on a story.'

'Yeah? Whose? Did Rosen ask you to copy-edit thatJosie
Simons thing on ticket scalpers?'

Topaz shook her head, grinning. 'Not exactly. This is
one of my own.'

'Of yours?' asked Jason, surprised[ Topaz was obviously
very good, but Nate Rosen would surely never promote her
so quickly. She'd only been at Westside a month. Even Elise
had had to wait six months before she got a reporting gig.

She noddtd. 'It's kind of a . . . a test. He wanted to see
what I could do.'

The heavy metal doors hissed smoothly open, and they
stepped out together onto Westside's floor. The offices were
deserted at this time in the morning. Only Jason liked to get
into work early; he left early too, to hit the cool, crowded
little restaurants he reviewed before the rush started.
Today, Topaz wanted time to think, to go over what she
could get out of this hot little bombshell. If only she could
keep a lid on her excitement long enough to think straight.

'I'm intrigued, 'Jason said. 'Spill it, Topaz. What did he
say? You want some coffee?'

'Yes please,' she said, already a shameless caffeine addict.

'Black, no sugar. Can you keep a scret?'.

'Sure,' said Jason, curiously.

'He asked me to get an interview with David Levine. Said
that ill did, he would make me a reporter, and if I screwed it
up, I was fired.'

'No!' said Jason, perching on the edge of his desk. He
handed her the coffee. 'That's not like Nathan, to be hard on
a junior like that. He's normally so laid-back. You must


83

really have pissed him off, Topaz. Would you like me to talk

to him? See if I can calm him down?'

Topaz grinned. 'I got the story, Jason.'

'Get out of here.'

'I did, I did!' she burst out, unable to control the huge grin
spreading across her face. 'I trailed him! In disguise! And I
taped him! And it's dynamite!'

Jason laughed at her affectionately. 'Come on, babe,
you're not Lois Lane, and this isn't the Daily Planet. What
did you do, make something up? I'm not gonna report you.
Nathan'll probably let you offfor being inventive.'

Without another word, Topaz bent down and unclipped

her briefcase. Gingerly she extracted the double-spaced
typescript of her story and handed it to her friend.

Jason read it in silence, occasionally raising an eyebrow or
letting his lips move in surprise. It was extremely well
written. And it was indeed dynamite.

At the end, he said simply, 'Topaz, can you prove this?'
She nodded, eyes sparkling, and threw him the tape of
their conversation. Richman slotted it into the cassette
player by Elise DeLuca's desk.

' . . . tell me all about it,' said Topaz in a soft Southern
drawl.

'Well, Susie should have known better,' David Levine's
unmistakable voice asserted loudly.

Jason sat bolt upright, staring down at the pages in his
hand. He realized what he was hearing, but he still couldn't
quite believe it.

'She was a teacher. Seemed like/had to teach hera lesson,'
Levine went on, his voice clipped and tight.

'Coke?' Jason asked, reaching for the off-switch. He
didn't want to hear any more. The stuffLevine admitted in
this article made his stomach turn.

'Yeah. And he was on something different when I first
stopped him in the street,' Topaz answered. She was
swelling with pride. Jason's reaction was exactly what she'd
hoped for. 'He told me he'd sue if I printed anything,
because he didn't see a tape recorder. So I swi.tched my


84

Dictaphone on and.., and I hid it inside my bra,' she
explained.

Jason glanced involuntarily at her firm, full bust. Damn,
the girl had no business looking like that. It was distracting
when he was trying to concentrate on the scoop of the
goddamn year.

He sighed. 'Topaz, do you know what you've got here?'
'A story that'll make me a reporter,' she said confidently.

Richman marvelled. For a smart, independent kid, Rossi
could sometimes be incredibly dumb.

'What you've got here,' he explained patiently, 'is a
front-page lead item on the six-o'clock-news-type story.
An exclusive that could sell millions of papers. That will ruin a major film star's career, embarrass his studio, and
make you personally into a celebrity, at least for a few days.
Now you could hand in a story like that to your boss and get
made into a reporter, on twenty-five thousand dollars a
year. That'g a big step up from where you are now, of
course. '

He gathered up his stuff, wanting to get over to the
Gotham Car6 in SoHo for breakfast. 'Or you could figure
out what a story like that is worth. To Nathan Rosen or
anyone else. Don't be a putz, Topaz. You're not in Kansas
any more.'

And with that he winked at her and strolled out the door.


Nathan Rosen stepped into his kitchen, wondering what to
fix for breakfast. French vinilla coffee and a toasted bagel
with lox, perhaps. Nothing too heavy. It was too warm a
morning to want to eat heavy food.

A few .years ago he'd have just grabbed some ice cream
from the fridge, or made himself a chicken sandwich. Or
more likely skipped breakfast altogether and picked up a
doughnut at the office. Things were simpler then. After the
divorce, eating what he liked where he liked had taken on a
delicious sense of luxury.

But Rosen was a born New Yorker, and a high achiever at
that. He liked to be the best at everything, and he liked the


85

attentions of women. And somewhere in the mid-eighties,
how you looked became as important as what you were.

As usual, Nathan refused to be left behind. He joined a
gym and worked offhis soft belly and spreading thighs, and
cut excess fat from his diet. He still ate like a horse, but he ate
high-protein, high-carbohydrate foods. The one thing he
couldn't give up was ice cream, but then again, he was only
human.

It had been a struggle. But it was worth it, Rosen thought
with a touch of vanity, checking himself out in the wall
mirror. His large frame was now solid muscle. He had a
clean, strong jawline with no hint of fat around the chin.
There was nothing he could do about his thinning hair and
the flecks of grey at the side of his skull, but basically Rosen
looked good. And he knew it. Hell, how could he fail to

I
notice? He was getting laid so much more. Women came on
to him at the gym. After the workout class. While he was
out jogging. At parties. At baseball games. Yeah, Nate
Rosen was a big fan of the exercise revolution.

He'd dated a few of the women he met socially, but not
for long; no relationship since his marriage had lasted more
than five months. But that didn't bother him. He was in no
rush to get another thin gold band. After years of fidelity to
a sexually selfish woman, Rosen was enjoying his freedom
too much to give it up. If the right person came along, fair
enough. But it was a case of proceed with caution. He'd
been wrong the first time.

Rosen switched on the percolator, waiting for the
pleasantly bitter coffee smell to fill the airy kitchen. He
loved this time in the morning that he had for himself
swinging into his stride, psyching himself up for another
day in the office. Westside was a fun magazine to edit; not
only cutting-edge, but, since he'd taken over the editor's
job, highly profitable.

In fact, the rumour was that he was about to be
promoted. Henry Birnbaum, the director of American's
East Coast operations, was due to step down in the fall.
Nathan had been told by the President, Matthew. Gowers,


86

that he was first in line for the job.

Director. It would be a good way to turn forty, Nathan
thought, grinning. He looked out of his window towards
Central Park, enjoying the clear blue skies, the sunlight, his
own feelings of success.

Maybe he'd been a little hard on Topaz Rossi.

Now where the hell did that come from? Rosen wondered,
angry with himself. What was this thing he had about
some new kid? Some talented, pushy new kid who'd only
been in the office a month? He could not stop thinking about
her. Getting enchanted by her enthusiasm, fascinated by her
intelligence, enraged by her arrogance. He'd never had so
much chutzpah at her age. At least, he thought not. And she
had been way out of line the other night, no question. But
would he have reacted in that way if she'd been a guy?
Wouldn't he just have laughed at her, told her to calm
down? What was with this stupid do-or-die mission he'd
sent her or? David Levine? Right. Like some kid could
manage to swing an interview with him. She was probably
over there this morning, cleaning out her desk. And she had
talent, Topaz Rossi; Nathan reckoned she'd make a good
writer some day. It wasn't his job as her boss to be taking
out his feelings on her.

Because, Rosen admitted to himself, spreading lox on his
bagel, I do have feelings for that girl. I like her. And I want

her.

But that was natural. She was beautiful, with those
delicate blue eyes and that mass of curly red hair. It was
impossible not to think about the hair elsewhere on her
smooth, young body. And she was stacked, with a waist he
could encircle with his two hafids swelling out to an
invitingly curvy ass. Rossi would grace the cover of Sports
Illustrated's swimsuit issue, so it was only to be expected that
he imagined her the way he did. On a beach, in a tiny bikini.
Naked on top of him. Being made love to, slowly, in his
jacuzzi upstairs.

Rosen, feeling the first stirrings in his groin, dragged his
thoughts away from those images. Topaz was way too


87

young. He despised middle-aged men who chased students.
And he had enough girls without screwing around on his
doorstep. In the nineties, the office romance was totally
taboo. It had always been bad news, but these days you
didn't even think about things like that. The office compliment was taboo, for Christ's sake. If Topaz was a little older,
she'd understand these things. She wouldn't come on to
him so damn obviously, with those smiles and little
breathless glances and tight T-shirts. She was a nice kid. He
had to be a responsible adult.

This morning, Rosen decided, I'll call the kid in and let
her off with a warning. A stern warning.

David Levine and Topaz Rossi? he thought, grinning. It
would be Christians and Lions all over again.


'What's up with Topaz?' Elise asked Josie. 'She's been
locked on the phone all day.'

'And circling property ads in the Village Voice,' the music
writer agreed. 'I don't know. I guess she's moving house.'

'On what we're paying?' Elise shrugged.


Topaz felt her heartbeat speeding up. Adrenalin coursed
through her. Thank God for Jason Richman! Thank God
she'd even got to talk to him! How could she have been so
blind?

She was holding for Geoffrey Stevens. Amazing how
good this felt. It had come to her like a blinding flash of
inspiration, after Jason left this morning. So the article was
worth $5o,ooo and she hadn't spotted it? Fine. Well, now
she was going to make it $oo,0oo. And get herself a little
revenge into the bargain.

She had to move secretly. And she had to move fast.

'Miss Rossi.'

There it was, at last. That clipped English accent she thought she'd never hear again, not once Charles Gordon
had killed her student articles with one phone call. Oh, she
remembered all that. 'Mr Stevens is unavailable:' 'Mr
Stevens is not in the office.' 'Mr Stevens has asked me to tell


88

you we can't use your material, Miss Rossi. Sorry if there
was any misunderstandiug.'

Topaz felt her Italian blood pump through her, thrilled at
the prospect of revenge.

'I got your fax,' Stcvcns said. 'A very iuteresting snippet.' Yeah, )ou're itterested it this material, ri,ht, you limey prich?

'There's more where that came from, Mr Steveus. A lot
more. And a tape to go with it.'

There was a pause. Topaz could almost see the greedy
asshole lickiug his lips.

'We would be very iuterested in publishing this story,
Miss Rossi. You would have a byline, of course. And a
picture.'

She almost laughed out loud. He must think she was still
at college. 'Of course,' she agreed. 'That's standard. Now
we must discuss the small matter of my fee.'

'My budget is limited, Miss Rossi,' Stevens said coldly, as

if to imply'his coutempt for such a mercenary attitude.
Topaz grinned. 'My options aren't,' she observed.

Sileuce. He could feel it slippiug away. 'What do you
want?'

'Seventy thousaud pounds,' said Topaz coolly. The office
fax wasn't numbered, and she wauted him to think she was
still in Eugland. That was au important part of the plan.
'Today. Paid directly iuto nay bauk accouut. You get a
European exclusive, and it has to run in the Smtda} Times next week. I'll fax you the first half of the story today, with a
tape to match, Fed ex'd to the office. If I get nay mouey,
you'll get the second half of the story tomorrow.'

'How do I kuow it isn't a comp!ete fabrication?'

Topaz held her Dictaphone up to the receiver and pressed
play, letting the tape run for tweuty seconds.

'That should be enough, Mr Stevens. If you can't trust me,

just say so, I'll sell it to the Mail o StoMa y. 1)o we have a deal ?'
'Yes, damn it!' the mau spat.
Topaz heard the line click dead.
Smiling, she called her bank.

9


Nathan arrived at Westside about eleven fifteen and went
straight into his office, refusing all calls and his mail, and
worked solidly through the proposed budget for a new
colour supplement the board wanted to see installed.
Nobody disturbed him; it had been Rosen's habit for years
to concentrate completely on the most immediate problem
they had, and sort other things out later. If Elise wanted a
new features layout or Josie wanted to run a rock concert
promotion, they got to see Nathan Rosen - but only after
lunch. If you got summoned to the office before 2 p.m.,
everybody knew something was up.

At noon the internal phone buzzed on Topaz Rossi's
desk.

'Yeah,' she said absently, hunched over mortgage
calculations.

'Topaz? This is Oriole,' said Nathan's assistant, sympathetically.
'Could you come over to the editor's office right
away, please? He wants to talk to you.'

'Sure,' Topaz said, feeling her palms begin to sweat. God,
she hoped she'd done the right thing. Not that she should
worry. She'd made herself rich. Or at least richer. Seventy
thousand pounds is $Ioo, ooo, Topaz told herself firmly,
trying to calm her nerves, to control the ball of anxiety in
her stomach. She got up, tugging her skirt round her hips,
futilely trying to make it a little longer, pulling back her
snaking red curls into a neat ponytail. It was no use. Her
reflection stared back at her from Elise's glass door, the
long, well-turned legs stretching up for miles, the smart
black leather hugging her ass provocatively, the tiny waist
emphasized by a leather belt, and the full breasts, tilting
youthfully upwards from her ribcage, blossoming under
the tight pull of her crisp white shirt. In fact, the ponytail
somehow added sex appeal - it made her look like an
overripe schoolgirl.

Blushing, she unfastened the blue velvet scrunch that held
it iri place, grabbed her story and her tape and marched
across the corridor to Nathan Rosen's office.

Why should I care if he fires me? Topaz. thought


9o

rcbelliously. I can get another job in a second. I don't need Westside.

But she knew that she did care. Very much. Because Nate
Rosen worked at l, Vestside.

'Hi, Topaz,' Oriole said. 'You can just go right in.'

She sauntered into Rosen's office, looking over the
spectacular city view. Nathan, jabbering furiously into the
phone in Yiddish, motioned to her to take a seat. Topaz sat
gratefully down in a black leather chair opposite his desk,
trying to look like someone who knew how to bargain.
Someone who sold a major story to two papers every day of
the week. And not someone who was terrified she'd just
blown her career.

Nathan growled into the phone and hung up, then sat
down heavily, glaring at her. 'So you remember our last
conversation,' he said.

Topaz summoned up her courage. 'Yes I do,' she said.
'And I got 3ou the interview.'

Her editor raised an eyebrow.

'I taped it,' Topaz blurted. 'I mean, I disguised myself and
I taped it secretly. I hid the Dictaphone... on me, and he
admitted everything, so I transcribed it in a story and I have
copies of the tape and.., and it's all there,' she finished
breathlessly, shoving her typescript and the tape towards
him.

Nathan looked at his prot6g6e for a long moment, then
glanced at the top page of the interview, not bothering to

flick through it. Then he looked slowly at Topaz again.
'OK, kid,' he said coldly. 'What have you done?'
'Wh- what do you mean?' she stammered.

Rosen sighed. 'Ms Rossi,' he said, 'I've been editing this
magazine for two years. I've been a journalist for eighteen
years. I think I can read a case of guilty nerves pretty well.
I'm sure you did get this story, like you say. Now that ought
to be a coup, am I right? But you walk in here like you've
been summoned to the principal's office, not like you
wanna tell me you're up for the Pulitzer. So please don't
insult my intelligence. Just save us both some time and tell


9

me what you've done.'

Topaz swallowed, hard. 'OK,' she said. 'I - I've sold the
European rights on the story to the Sunday Times and
they're running it next week. But they think I'm still in
England. They don't know I'm here, so they didn't ask for
world rights. Which means that we can lead Wednesday's
edition with it and still be first with the story.'

'Let me get this straight,' Nathan said slowly. 'You have

sold this story to another publication, a major international
paper, and you are proposing to doublecross them by
having us print the story in America first. Where it will, of
course, make the news around the world, thus making it
almost useless to them.'

'Yes,' Topaz admitted weakly.

Rosen's voice was calm. 'How much did you get for it?'

'A hundred thousand dollars,' she mumbled.

'One hundred thousand dollars,' he repeated. 'I see. And

what did you want from me? A chunk of the stock,
perhaps?'

'No, no,' Topaz protested. 'I swear. I just wanted you to
make me a reporter... ' Her voice trailed off miserably
ahd she stared at her skirt.

'Sit there,' Nathan ordered. 'While I read this lucrative

piece of investigative journalism. '

Topaz waited for five minutes that seemed like five
hours, squirming on her seat in embarrassment as Rosen
worked through the article, his face impassive. She was
obviously about to get fired. Nathan seemed to think she'd
torn up the rule book of news ethics. Santa Maria, and she
only wanted to please the guy! He was so gorgeous! And yet
he never seemed to notice she was alive, unless it was to yell
at her or reprimand her for some little thing. The shorter her
skirts, the more figure-hugging her blouse, the less interest
Nathan showed. She couldn't understand it. She'd never
come across a man that didn't at least look at her appreciatively.
And Nathan Rosen was definitely not gay - according
to the other girls in the office, outside of Westside he was
a goddamn womanizer. So what the hell, Topaz.thought


92

angrily, is wrong with me?

Finally, Rosen looked up, and to her astonishment she
saw he was smiling.

'What kind of a reporter did you want to be?'

'Excuse me?' she said, bewildered.

'Come on, Rossi,' Nathan said. 'Pitch me. Tell me what
you want to do. Tell me how you can sell more magazines

for me. '

'I could write a column,' Topaz said. It was the first thing
that came into her head. 'About New York. As an out-oftowner
who's new here. Things most people wouldn't
notice - it'd make them look at Manhattan with a fresh eye.
I'd call it "NY Scene".'
'What about your salary?' asked Rosen, still smiling.
'Thirty-five thousand dollars,' Topaz said boldly.

Nathan shrugged. 'That's ten thousand more than new
reporters get.'

'But I'd'be a columnist. And like I told you before, I'm
better than they are.'

'Don't push it,' Nathan said. He extended one hand
across his desk and Topaz grabbed it eagerly, feeling a little

electric shock of sexuality as his flesh touched hers.
'Congratulations, kid,' he said. 'You scored.'

'You're not mad at me for selling it to an English paper?'

Nathan chuckled. 'Rossi, that was the first piece of real
initiative you've shown since you got here.'

'And thirty-five thousand a year!' she breathed.

Nathan smiled at her again. 'With a story like this, you
could have asked for fifty thousand. But you wouldn't
welsh on a handshake, right?'

'You sonofabitch,' Topaz said, ngri[y.

Nathan laughed. 'Relax. Consider it valuable vocational
training. You're not the only one who can pull a
fast trick, kid. Just remember - I'm still better at this than
you are.'

For a second she glared at him, and theh broke down
under the warmth of his teasing and smiled. Damn, damn, damn, he was attractive.

93


'Want to grab a beer with me to celebrate?' she asked,
tentatively.
Nathan Rosen looked her over, the thrusting breasts, the
handspan waist, the round ass and long, beautiful legs, and
felt himself sorely tempted. Her desire was written in a
bright glow on her face, on those delicious half-stiffened
nipples.

'No, I have to work,' he said. 'Unlike some people I could
mention.'

She turned away, trying not to show her disappointment.
'Topaz,' Nathan said. 'You can take the day off. Go find a

new apartment. You did good.'

'Thanks, boss,' she said lightly, and walked out of his
office, closing the door behind her.

After she'd gone, Nathan Rosen stared at the typescript

on his desk for a long moment. He'd have to watch this girl
carefully. Because unless all his instincts were mistaken, the
pushy little Italian was a force to be reckoned with.

94


Chapter Nine


It wasu't a promising start. Of all the places Rowena least
liked having to trek to see bauds, working men's clubs in the
north of England rated amongst the worst. Usually she had
to argue for forty minutes with some surly bloke who blew
smoke in her face before he'd even let her in, and then stand
at the back and do her best to blend into the chipped paint or
peeling wallpaper. Not easy, when drunk fifty-year-olds
were wandering up to you and making breathtakiugly
obscene comments every five minutes. The only women
welcome in those dives were strippers, and the punters
made sure Rowena knew it.

So some bunch of talentless Northerners called Atomic
Mass are playing Crookes Working Men's Club in
Sheffield, Rowena thought as she parked her battered mini
down the road. Terrific. Great. And Musica Records, right
on the cutting edge as usual, is here to check them out.

Once she got inside, she bought two triple Jack Daniels
and Diet Cokes, and fiuished one offbefore the band even
hit the stage. She was obviously going to need them. The
place was mercifully half-empty, but the barman had taken
great pleasure in informing her that Atomic Mass were a
bunch of young kids who'd got t6gethr at college, with an
American from the university on lead guitar. Bound to be
strictly amateur-hour stuff. By the time they wandered
onstage, Rowena was seething with resentment at Matthew
Stevenson for making her waste an evening like this.

And then they started to play.


Barbara Lincoln, elegantly dressed in an Armani pantsuit in


95

cream linen that set off her slim figure and soft chocolate
skin, was trying to figure something out. Her secretary had
brought in her mail that morning - the usual stuff every
Business Affairs executive had to deal with in a record
company- and one memo. Not that she didn't normally get
memos. But this one was different: hand-delivered early in
the morning, and from a talent scout in A&R, Rowena

Gordon, some new girl whom Barbara had never met.

It was so weird.

She glanced at it again. Dear Ms Lincoln, I would be grateful
if you could allow me ten minutes for a meeting with you today.
My extension is 435. Regards, Rowena Gordon, Artists and
Repertoire.

Why on earth did one of Stevenson's scouts want to meet
with her? Why not Matthew himself?. He was the one who
handled contract negotiations. Barbara was twenty-five and
the number two in Musica's Legal and Business Affairs
Department, and she'd never met a scout in her career.
There was just no reason for it.

Intrigued, she dialled Rowena's extension.


'I.wanted some advice,' Rowena said nervously, shutting
the door behind her. Maybe this hadn't been such a good
idea. Barbara Lincoln's secretary had shot her a strange look
when she'd turned up for her appointment, dressed in her
normal office clothes ofjeans and trainers. Over in Business
Affairs, the look was obviously more formal. Christ,
Lincoln dressed the way she had at Oxford, in the old days
when money was no object. That seemed several lifetimes
ago now.

Barbara eyed her up. She looked intelligent, a well
spoken young girl for a talent scount. There was something
about this one she couldn't pin down.

'I don't mind at all,' she said. Tmjust curious as to why
you wouldn't tell me what this was about.'

Rowena nodded. 'I understand,' she said, 'but I couldn't
say in front of Matthew Stevenson. You see, I've found a
band I think the company should sign, and I don't think


96

Matthew will listen to them with an open mind if I play
them for him.'

'Why not?' Barbara enquired calmly.

'Because Josh Oberman hired me himself,' Rowena said.

Barbara smiled. 'Did you know that's how 1 got hired?'
she asked.

'That's why I'm here,' Rowena said simply. 'You've obviously
survived. I hoped you might be able to help me to.'

Barbara laughed. 'Very inventive. Did you bring a tape
with you? I'll put the headphones on.'

The older girl listened in silence for several minutes, then
slid the headpiece offand looked at Rowena with somethiug
approaching respect. 'Well, I'm into business, not music,'
she said, 'but it seems to me like you have something here. If

I were you I'd go to see Oberman direct.'

'How would I get an appointment?'

Barbara picked up her phone and tapped in some
uumbers. "Josh?' she asked. 'Hi, it's Barbara Lincoln. Fine,
thanks. Look, Josh, I was just wondering if you could see
Rowena Gordon sonae time today.'

Rowena, her face flaming red, made a lunge for the
phone, but Barbara stood up, grinning, and held it out of
reach. 'She's found a good act and she wants you to hear it.
Doesn't think Matthew will give a rock band a chance, and
she's too shy to tell you herself. Ycah, OK. OK. I
understand. Thanks, boss.'

She hung up and turned to a mortificd Rowena. 'He
wants to see you in his office in five minutes,' Barbara told
her. 'And don't look like that. He's not gonna fire you. I've
becn working with Josh for a couple of years, and I tell you,
that guy knows the scorc. He's bccu doing this since before either of us were born. He'll undcrstaud Matthcw's problena.
He'll only think well of you for coming to me.'

'Are you sure?' Rowcna asked, anxiously.

Barbara gave a self-assured nod. 'I ana. And come and see
me when you're through. We should go out for a drink.'

Rowena smilcd. 'I'd like that,' she said.

r


97

Joshua Oberman sat hunched in his chair, listening to the
tape. The soundquality was dreadful, the production nonexistent,
and Gordon didn't have so much as a picture to
show him.

They were awesome.

Excitement rippled through his withered veins. Seventy
years old, and good music could still turn him on. He
couldn't get an erection any more but he still felt like a
teenager when he heard stuff like this. It was the old Guns n'
Roses syndrome. The thrill of heai'ing an act nobody else
had heard of, and knowing, just knowing that in a couple of
years they'd be packing stadiums and making thousands of
teenage chicks cream their pants. Fat bass. Fresh guitar.
Great vocals. Cool songs.

The kind ofstuffthat got arena seats ripped up.

Music that caused riots.

'So where did you see this act?' he asked impassively,
staring sternly at little Rowena Gordon, sitting fidgeting in
her chair like she was up before God at the Day of
Judgment.

'At a working men's club in Sheffield,' Rowena admitted.
'They're really young, Josh. And they look really
good.'

'Music sells music, kid,' Oberman growled. 'Remember
that.'

She nodded hastily, but couldn't help adding. 'And they
moved really well live.., hardly anyone was there but
they still played their guts out... '

'Where are they playing next?' Oberman asked casually.
'At the Retford Porterhouse,' Rowena told him. She leant
forward on her seat. 'Josh, you've got to come and see
them. Please.'

She groped for something he would understand. 'Look,
they'll sell records in America,' she tried. 'I'm just sure of it.'

Josh Oberman raised an eyebrow. He'd grown up on the
Brooklyn Heights, his career had spanned three continents,
and for the past fifteen years he'd ruled the British record
industry with a rod of beat-up platinum discs. In.all that


98

time he'd found exactly three European bands who'd had
substantial success in America. Now there was a pretty little
English rosebud sitting in his office, telling him she was sure

this unknown act of hers would break in America.

The trouble was, he agreed with her.

'Listen to me, kid,' he growled. 'It's seven years since I've
been to a fleapit rock concert. So you'd better be right about
this, because I've got six companies to run here.'

Rowena took a deep breath. So she was gambling her
career. So what? If she couldn't get these boys signed, she
was in the wrong industry.

Tm right, Josh,' she insisted. 'If you don't agree, I'll
quit.'

Oberman pretended to think about it. 'OK, Gordon.
You have yourself a deal. I will neglect all the needs of the

Musica group of companies in the UK and go see-'
'Atomic Mass.'

'Atomic'Mass, right. And you should pray that they're
good. Come pick me up tomorrow night, and don't bother
to bring your car. We'll take a limo.'

What an incredible-looking girl, Oberman thought as he
watched Rowena leave his office. All legs and hair and
pouty lips.

He wished he was young enough to wish he could fuck

her.


Rowena could hardly make it through Wednesday, she was
so excited. And nervous. And hopeful. And scared.

If Josh didn't like them, that was the end of it. Forget
about music. Forget about dropp!ng out. It would be back
to the drawing board, and a nice safe life asa lawyer or
something.

But if he did like them She
hardly dared think about it.


As soon as the time on her computer flashed 6.30, Rowena
logged out, stood up and almost ran out of A&R to the
president's office. She'd taken great care with her appear99



ance this morning; black jeans, a tight black body to
emphasize her minute waist, fashionable workmen's boots
and a black leather jacket. A sexy look. A tough-girl look.
She hoped she seemed like someone who knew a talented
rock band when she heard one.

'Goddamn, what the hell are you wearing?' Oberman
demanded, thinking how hot she looked. The long blonde
hair shimmering down her back was almost obscenely
golden against the black leather.

'What's wrong with it?' Rowena sked, practically drag

ging her boss out to the lifts.

'You look like you're gonna mug me,' the old man
grumbled, leading her towards his car.

Rowena took a step back. Of course, she was hardly
unused to luxury. And she realized that the presidents of

record companies don't drive Renault 5s. But this was
something else. A liveried chauffeur holding open the
back-seat door on a long, gleaming black monster that
looked like it had driven straight out of a Jackie Collins
novel.

'Well, what are you gaping at?' Oberman demanded,
secretly amused. The kid was half brilliant and half totally
naive. 'Get in and quit wasting time. They're only the
support act. You want me to miss them, or what?'

'No, no, sir,' Rowena said hastily, slipping into the back

seat with a refined movement. Josh noticed that, too. So she
was used to chauffeurs. Although she'd been dirt poor when
he found her, and she was earning a pittance right now.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said in Wonderland.

He clambered in next to her and told his driver where to

go, and the limo pulled smoothly out of the car park and

melted into the early evening traffic.

Rowena glanced at her watch.

'Don't worry, kid, we'll get there,' Oberman said. 'Lewis

is a good driver. Knows all the short cuts. Right, Roger?'

'Right, Mr Oberman,' the chauffeur answered briskly in

a soft Welsh accent.

Rowena paid no attention. She was trying not to stare at

TOO

the incredible array of equipment in Oberman's car. Two
phones. A fax machine. A television. A CD-player on a
stack system. Discreet Surround Sound speakers built into
the camel leather. An IBM computer and a drinks cabinet.

'The swimming pool's out back,' Oberman added
dryly, and chuckled when she spun round. 'I do a lot of
work in the car,' he explained. 'Works out cheaper than a
second office.'

She nodded, trying not to feel that she was way, way out
of her depth. What was she thinking of, dragging her boss
out to a tiny, sweaty club in the provinces? That was her
job, not his!

'OK,' Oberman said briskly. 'Tell me everything you
remember about the first time yousaw these guys play.'


The limo pulled up in a grimy street a couple of hours later.
The summer evening sky was black with rain, and by the
time she'd'shown him across the road to the club they were
both soaked to the skin. She stumbled into the entrance,
drenched, and gave their names to the doorman, who
insisted on making Oberman wait outside in the downpour
while he laboriously searched the guest list. Rowena's heart
sank. She could see that this gig was packed out with kids,
no place for an old man to have to stand listening to a new
act. And he was bound to be in a filthy mood at the weather
and the delay.

'Yeah, all right,' the doorman yelled. 'Oberman, Joshua.
'E can go in.'

'Thank you,' Rowena yelled back, pulling her president
inside.

'No readmittance,' the doormn added sourly.
Oberman's face was murderous.

Rowena swallowed hard and pushed through the open
doors, grabbing her boss's hand and forcing a way through
the slamming crowd, so they had somewhere to stand. It
was tough going. She was used to metal crowds, but she
was still a girl. And acting as a bodyguard for an old man
was a tough gig. At least he's tall, Rowena though


I0I

gratefully, craning to see Atomic kicking up a storm on the
tiny stage.

Josh Oberman watched the band in silence, a huge grin on
his weatherbeaten face. He was pleased that Gordon
couldn't see him. He didn't want to let her know how
delighted he was with her.

In front of him, a bunch of five kids looking as though
they were barely out of school were tearing up the little
hothouse of a club as though the world would end
tomorrow. Jesus, Oberman thought, the drummer looks
like he's never fucking shaved. The songs were original and
new an.d had an insistent beat, clever harmonies and a
crashing bass. The front rows were a mass of flailing bodies,
teenage boys slamming into one another, slick with sweat
and rebellion.

They had passion.
They had music.
They had youth.

And, Joshua Zachary Oberman told himself when the
house lights came up, they had a record deal.

'Come with me,' he said to Rowena. 'We're going
badkstage.'

Knowing better than to ask him to wait a few minutes,
Rowena followed her boss round to the side; picking her
way across puddles of beer and crushed styrofoam cups and
flyers. The security guards spoke briefly to Josh, then
ushered the two of them into a minute dressing room,
where Atomic Mass, drenched in sweat and towelling off,
looked at them questioningly.

'Hi, I'm Joshua Oberman, president of Musica Records,'
Josh said.

Two cans of beer halted simultaneously in mid-air.
Oberman shoved Rowena forward, noting the appreciative
glances the lads shot her. 'And this is Rovcena Gordon,
an A&R girl who works for me. She thinks we should give
you" a record deal. And so do I.'

I02


Chapter Ten


In the sweltering heat of the Westside offices on Seventh

Avenue, the phone rang on Topaz's desk.

'Rossi,' she said briskly.

'Topaz?' crackled the voice at the other end.

'Rupert?' shrieked Topaz, delighted. 'Rupe! How are you?
Give me your number, I'll call you right back.'

'It's OK, I'm at the Union,' said Rupert, with the airy
disregard of someone not paying the phone bill.

'How'sit going down there?' she asked. The comparative
peace and quiet of college seemed very attractive right now.

'l made editor,' said Rupert. '.James Robertson's President
for Michaelmas Term; and Rod Clayton made another
great speech.'

'Rod's great, I wish I'd been there,' sighed Topaz. Rod
Clayton's speeches made her laugh till her stomach hurt.
She glanced down at her piece on the demise of the Mets; no
matter how hard she reworked it, it wouldn't come right.
Much like the Mets, in fact. Topaz was a big Mets fan and she wasn't having history's best day

'Anyway, I didn't call you about that,' Rupert went on. 'I
called about Rowena.'

Topaz froze. 'What about Rowena? .she asked casually.
'Didn't you hear? You must've heard,' said Rupert
incredulously. 'First she just disappeared from sight for
months. Then it turns out she's got a job at Musica Records,
right, and she barges into the president's office or something
and told him he was a prat. Apparently things like that
get you big brownie points in the music business. Anyway
he goes to see this brilliant band she'd found and offers them

xo3


a deal on the spot! So now he thinks Rowena's a genius, and
he's making her AR or something - that means she gets to
sign acts... '

Topaz Rossi had suddenly become oblivious to the
flashing phone lights and deadlines and spewing fax
machines and all the office chaos. She at still as a statue.
Rowena's success was a white-hot knife in her heart.

'Everyone at Oxford's taking bets on which of you guys
is going to make it first,' Rupert went on. 'Someone faxed
your Westside expos6 of that bastard David Levine to Cherwel! - we led on it! It was unbelievable, Topaz, even for
you.

'Thanks, Rupe,' said Topaz mechanically. 'It's going OK
here. '

Then it dawned on her that this would get back to
IRowena. 'In fact, I'm probably going to get a syndication
deal,' she added quickly. 'I got creative control, I report
direct to Nathan- he's the editor-and Westsidejust gave me
my own column. '

'Bloody hell, Topaz!' said Rupert, astonished.

'I've even bought a little apartment,' said Topaz, 'so if
yoh're ever in New York . . . it's on Clarkson Street in the
Village . . . '

'In the Village?' spluttered Rupert. 'Are you rich, too?'
Tm getting by,' said Topaz. Choke on it, Rowena.


Nathan Rosen passed her office, flashing her a 'rescue me'
look. A tall, thin, blonde woman in a fur coat was
propelling him towards his own, one hand on his shoulder
ostentatiously flashing a gold Rolex.

'Who is that?' hissed Elise to Topaz.

'No idea,' she whispered, shaking her head. 'Ask Jason.'
Elise buzzed Jason Richman.

'Don't you guys recognize her?' Jason asked. 'That's
Marissa Matthews.'

'The gossip columnist?' demanded Elise in a strangled
screech. Marissa Matthews' bitchy chronicles of New York


Io4

high society made her the highest-read journalist in America.
'His ex-wife,'Jason added.

'His what?' gasped both women.

'Nathan was married?' asked Elise, who'd been at Westside two years.

'For seven years,' Jason said. 'He doesn't talk about his
private life.'

'Jesus! You can say that again!' muttered Elise, twisting
her own wedding ring.

Topaz was shocked at the wave of jealousy surging
through her. Nathan Rosen was going to be hers. He'd
resisted all her advances so far, but he'd see reason. They
were having dinner this eveuing to talk about the column,
and she had high hopes even for tonight.

'I'm getting him out of this,' she said to Elise, jumping
out of her chair and striding across the floor to the editor's office.

'TopazRossi's on the warpath,' said one of the features
subs to a secretary, catching sight of her face.

'So what else is new?'


'Baby!' Topaz purred, throwing open the editor's door.
'What time are we meeting up tonight? Oh, hi,' she added
warmly to Marissa. 'I'm Topaz Rossi. I see you:ve met nay
boyfriend, but I don't think we've been introduced!

Nathan, you're such a forgetful boy.'
She gave Marissa a dazzling smile.
Rosen suppressed a wild desire to laugh.

'Sweetheart, I don't think yon're met nay ex-wife, Marissa Matthews. Marissa, this is nay girlfriend Topaz
Rossi, a rising star at Westside,' h said.pleasantly.

Marissa stared at her with a look that would have lowered
the temperature at the North Pole as Topaz sauntered over
to Nathan and ran her hand affectionately over the seat of his
pants.

'Nathan and I were together for a very lbng time,' she
informed Topaz acidly.

'Oh well! Shit happens, huh?' said Topaz, with a cheerf[,1


1o5

smile. 'Still, every cloud has a silver liniug,' she added
maliciously, standiug on tiptoe to kiss Nathan's cheek,
which she did slowly and luxuriantly, touching his rough
skiu with the hidden tip of her tongue.

Rosen felt flames of lust lick up and down his body.
Marissa's thin lips pursed in disapproval. What a
fmlmouthed little Italian tramp! 'I must be going, Nathan,' she
snapped.

'Let's do lunch!' called Topaz after her retreating back,
letting go of Nathau's hand reluctalitly.

Rosen smiled at her, wouderiug how loug he could hold
out. She was just a child, damn it, and she worked for him. He absolutely must not take advantage of a young girl's
crush.

'Thanks, Rossi,' he said. 'I owe you one. How's "NY
' Scene" coming along?'

'Great,' shrugged Topaz. 'I just speut a day in Central
Park, interviewing everyone who used the carousel.'

'Sounds good,' Rosen nodded curtly, pleased because it
did. 'We'll talk more at dinner.'

'Sure,' Topaz said, turning to go.

'Work, work, work, she thought sadly. You uever look at
anythiug else, do you?


Rosen drove down Baxter Street into Little Italy.

'Where are we going?' demanded Topaz, pissed-off
because he hadn't uoticed her low-cut dress.

'Silver Palace,' said Nathan, keeping his eyes locked on
the road, as if that would help him forget about those
incredible breasts staring him in the face. Dear God, please
don't let me get hard right in front of her. 'I hear they have
incredible dim sum.'

'I want Italian,' said Topaz mutinously.

'Well, I want Chinese,' replied Nathan amiably, 'and I'm
paying.'

'You're theboss,' Topaz snapped.

He turned into Hester Street, heading for the Bowery,
and ignored her.


o6

Topa watched the high tenement houses with their
bcautiful iron fire escapcs slip past her. She felt more rclaxcd
out of the office, in crowdcd Little Italy with its caf6s and
Chinesc shops and almost European scuse of clutter:. "
Anyway, watching the scencry might take her mind offthc
close-shaven grey and black hair at the side of Nathan's
head.

Miraculously, they got to the restaurant without anothcr

row.

'What do you waat?' Nathan asked, as one of the dina sum
carts wheeled its way across the packed floor towards them.

'Spring rolls, prawn dumplings, stcamed pork dumplings,'
said Topaz, somcwhat reconciled to Chinesc from
the mouthwatcring scent of the food all around them.

Nathan heaped his plate. He worked out three times a
week, drank no alcohol, and considercd good ice cream the
ultimate human plcasure this side of sex, so he'd pig out ifhc
damu well'felt like it.

Talkiug of sex, he was getting hard for Rossi. Her skirt
had blown up just a little as she'd climbed the stairs in front
of him. He couldn't help himself.

'... and I thiuk it'd be a great twist, you ask six
celebrities what they read at school . . . '

' . . . that would be a winner, Nate, for the men's titles"My
Favourite One-Night Stand" by sportsmen... '

Roscu, makiug notes, choked ou a spriug roll. 'Rossi!' he
protcsted, shocked.

'Why not? Sex sells, especially men's titlcs. And 1 thiuk
you should suggest a cover-mount CD for White L(qht. Some books tried it in England.last year when I was at
school, circulation quadrupled.'

Nathan jotted it down. It was fautastic, a ncvcr-cnding
torrent of ideas. Where did she get it all from? He'd talk to
Harry Birnbaum about her, he'd have to. There was a
vacaucy for a features editor over at US Woman, and Topaz
Rossi was obviously perfect for it. Whoever heard of a
features editor with only one year's cxpcricnce? Well, they. were about to.

o7


e watched her, leaning towards him, blue eyes sparkling
with passionate enthusiasm.

'I thought we were gonna talk about "NY Scene", not
what you'd do if you ran American Magazines,' he said
weakly.

Topaz shrugged. 'You got a problem with "N Y Scene"?'
'No.'

'We getting a good reader response?'

'Pretty good,' Nathan conceded. In fact, Westside had
never seen so many letters.

'So what's to discuss?' demanded Topaz.

He looked at her. 'Young lady, I should take you across

my knee and spank you.'

Topaz felt herself getting slick between the legs. 'Promises,
promises,' she said, touching him with her shoe.

'
	Nathan battled with himself. He was as hard as a rock.

'Quit that,' he said through gritted teeth.

'Quit what?' asked Topaz innocently.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Tll get the check,' murmured Topaz, jumping up and
turning to the counter to pay. She almost ran down the
sirs and out of the door, waiting for him. She needed to
get him out of the crowded restaurant.

Rosen emerged on to the sidewalk two seconds later,
grabbed her by the shoulders and backed her up against the
wall.

Then he kissed her, his body stretched along hers, the
hard weight of him pushing against her right there on the
street, so her soft breasts were crushed into his chest and she
could feel his erection.

Nathan softly prised her mouth open and ran the tip of his

tongue along the underside of her top lip.

Topaz moaned.

He pulled away from her and stared into her eyes, wild

and surprised and aroused and scared. 'Topaz Rossi,' he whispered in her ear, 'I'm going to fuck your brains out.'

r

HTopaz sat rigid in the cab in the darkness, trying not to
betray herself in front of the driver. Nathan had his left
hand, hidden by her coat, in her panties, and was stroking
her very gently with two fingers, relentlessly, back and
forwards.

'We'll go to the American Magazines tower on Seventh,
please,' he said casually. 'I got a little unfinished business at
the office.'

The two of them walked into the marble lobby, Nathan
supporting Topaz while he collected his keys. Once the
elevator door had shut he ran his hands all over her, barely
able to restrain himself. Topaz was faint with desire. She
was burning for him over her whole skin, her entire body
ensitized to his touch. He put both his palms on the insides
of her thighs, caressing her, tantalizingly close to her ass and
her pussy but never quite touching them.

'Please, Nathan,' she gasped, 'please . . . '

For ansffer he led her out of the elevator and across the
deserted Westside office. Barely able to walk, Topaz stumbled
after him.

Nathan opened his office but didn't bother flicking on the
lights; the dull neon glow of New York at night was more
than enough to see by. He looked round the room at his
Eames chair and his files and his silent computer. Then he
looked at Rossi, leaning against the door for support,
squirming with longing for him. Rosen stared at her for a
second, mesmerized by her; the flawless young skin, her lips
wet and parted, the blue eyes liquid with desire.

Jesus Christ, she's every man's fantasy, Nathan thought,
overwhelmed with lust. His cock was so hard he was
starting to ache. He felt half frightened to touch her, unsure

what she could do to him, where this would take him.
He'd sworn he wouldn't do this.
She'd shown him what she wanted.
He wondered who was seducing who.

'That's a nice dress,' he said. hoarsely, 'but it'd look a lot
better in a crumpled heap on the floor. Take your clothes
off.'

Io9


Topaz stripped, her fingers fumbling from her heat. She
saw Nathan Rosen gazing at her, transfixed. A new flush of
sex rippled through her - look what she could do to him,
look at the way he was staring. She unhooked her bra
deliberately, delicately, letting him see the wisps of
chocolate-coloured lace brush against her erect nipples,
shrugging the tiny silk panties slowly offher thighs.

'Well?' Topaz asked insolently. She pirouetted for him,
displaying herself, taunting him.

Rosen could hardly believe her Body. His cock reared in
his pants. 'Come here,' he breathed.

Topaz crossed the room and reached for him, sliding her
hand across his fly, feeling the hardness of him through the
denim. Nathan's rough hands gripped her shoulders,
moving over the sleek skin, the lressure betraying his

-

mpatience. She reached for the buttons of his Levi's and
undid them, slipping her hand over him, hard as flint, hot
against her palm, and opened and closed her fingers around
him in a smooth, fluttering movement, feeling him pulse
under her touch, his breath catching in his throat.

Rosen moaned, harshly, utterly unable to control himself
a'second longer. He caressed her, squeezing her ass and
stroking her firm full breasts with their exquisite swollen
nipples, before turning her gently round and pushing her
down over the desk.

A second later she felt him slide into her, in and out, in
and out, and all her pent-up desire crystallized into a huge
block and she looked round and saw Nathan behind her and
above her, smiling, fucking her slowly, and she felt the
sweet pressure spread out across her body and she started to
come, feeling it in her fingers and toes, and her whole skin,
convulsing in orgasm . . .

II0


Chapter Eleven


Rowena Gordon leant back against the soft fabric of her seat
as the plane dipped sharply in the sky, veering in to the
landing approach. She craned her neck, trying to catch a
glimpse of the Manhattan skyline spread out below her, full
of threats and promises. At this very moment, a cab
assigned to her would be pulling up atJFK. Waiting to take
her to Mirror, Mirror, the famous, luxurious and totally
exclusive New York studios. Nicknamed .the 'Dream
Factory'. Where good bands went to become great ones.
Where stars went to become multi-platinum supernovas.
Where a kind of weird magic descended on the recording of
just a handful of albums each year, turning them into
volcanic eruptions of sound that could blow you away even
on a tinny home stereo. Magic that transformed your
bedroom into Madison Square Gardens. That gave drums a
wild kick, guitars a glittering distortion, vocals a savage
precision, and shot your record to the top of the charts and
the cover of Rolling Stone.

Because Mirror, Mirror was the studio where Michael
Krebs recorded.

And Michael Krebs was the bes.t producer in the world.
And Rowena had to have him.

At first she'd just been dreaming out loud. Things were
going so well, after all:Josh had signed Atomic Mass, she'd
got a big promotion and pay rise - and a nice new flat in
Earl's Court, thank God- and the band were media darlings
of the week. Their small shows became bigger shows. The
bigger shows sold out. No less than five major acts offered
them the support slot on their tours. And in the middle ofali

III


the excitement, the boys were keeping their heads screwed
on and writing some incredible songs . . .

So Rowena had joked to Josh Oberman that they should
get Michael Krebs to produce. Yeah, right. The legendary Michael Krebs. Who only ever worked with superstar
bands, who was probably booked for a decade upfront, and
who'd expect a couple of million dollars for his services
alone.

Of course, a multi-platinum record can make six or seven
million. So for a huge act, it wasn'tunreasonable.

But Atomic Mass were a tiny new band, freshly signed,
with not even a single to their name. And Rowena's budget

was I00,000.

So it was a joke.

Christ Almighty, what am I doing here? she thought,

' smoothing her long blonde hair into a ponytail and trying to
look cool, as though she flew Business Class to New York
all the time. What am I going to say to him? A hundred and
fifty thousand dollars? He'll laugh in my face. I'll probably
crack a rib when his security'goons throw me out on the
pavement.


	But that was Joshua Oberman for you! When the old guy

liked an idea, he really liked an idea.


'You think Krebs should produce Atomic Mass?' he'd asked

his prot4g4e.

'Oh, sure,' Rowena grinned. She patted her demo tapes

like a proud mother. 'They're the best band around, they
should have the best producer. And just as soon as I've saved
up a spare million, we'll hire him for them.'

Oberman got up and padded around the soft carpet of his
office, like a twitchy leopard.

'I know Michael from way back when,' he said suddenly.

'Gave him his first job when I was working.for Elektra. In
seventy-four. He'll see you if I ask him to.'

'Josh, you can't be serious,' Rowena protested. 'He'd cost

more than ten times our.budget for the whole thing!'

'We could go to a hundred and fifty thousand.dollars,'


112

'No buts,' Oberman insisted. 'You fly to New York and
meet with him. Take a demo. If he likes the stuff, he might
do it for that money. Starting a band from scratch could
appeal to Michael. He's a risk-taker, I'll have him send a cab
to bring you to the studio, and I'll let you take it from there.'

'Boss, you are out of your mind. This will never work in
a million years.'

Oberman lookedacross at her, with a strange expression.
'Atomic Mass are your band, Rowena,' he'd said. 'Make it
work. '


'Can I take your champagne glass, ma'am?' asked a
handsome steward in a gentle American accent. 'We'll be
coming in to land in just a few moments.'

'Thank you,' Rowena said, startled out of her thoughts.
God, she'was really doing this! Coming to New York for
the first time. Trying to pull offa deal with a superproducer.
In person. By herself.

There it was, look! The Statue of Liberty!

'Oh God,' said Rowena out loud.

She had never felt so nervous in her life.


'What kind of business?' the customs officer asked
pleasantly. Not that he gave a damn. The girl was obviously
not a drugs smuggler, criminal or illegal immigrant, but as
long as he could ask her questions he could enjoy the sight of
her long, slender legs in those tight pants, the gentle swell of
her breasts under the clinging Lycra body, her tumbling
blonde hair, her almost obscenely sexy lips, soft, plump,
with a slight natural pout that belied the businesslike jacket
and smart briefcase.

'I have a meeting,' she replied, in crisp English tones. The
officer brightened even more. What a babe. She sounded
like Princess Diana, all haughty and impatient. Made him
want to warm her up.

'With who?'

II3


'With a producer.'

'Oh,' he said, glancing at her slyly. 'An actress, huh?'

Rowcna shook her head, smiling. 'Not that kind of
producer.'

'Well, welcome to the United States,' the guy said,
sighiug. Back to the grind. Fat tourists and screaming kids.
Terrific . . .

Rowena, glad to have it over with, pushed her trolley
through into the arrivals hall, praying that the Mirror cab
hadn't given up on her and driven back. This was impossible
enough without her annoying Michael Krcbs. She
peered through the throng of relatives, company reps and
minicab drivers, jostling against the barricr with their little
cardboard signs. Nothing. She checked again. Definitely no

'Gordon'. Damn! She'd have to call and explain . . .

'Ms Gordon?' asked a respectful voice.

She spun round, and was confronted with a tall chauffeur,
decked out in full uniform - peaked cap, grey suit, the
works.

'Yes, I am,' she answered, trying not to stare.

'Mr Oberman gave us a description, ma'am,' he ex
plhincd, taking her trolley. 'If you'd like to follow me, I've
got your limousine parked round the front. Mr Krebs
wanted to know if you'd like to come and see him straight
away, or if you'd prefer to go to the hotel first?'

'We should just go straight to the studios,' said Rowena. A limo!Jes,s Christ! 'If it's convenient for Mr Krcbs to see

me now. '

The chauffeur touched his cap tTespectfully and led her to
the exit, Rowena walking three paces behind him in the
vague hopc that everyone might stop staring at her. She
couldn't believe this. It was a message to Musica from
Krcbs. When Oberman suggcsts he might send a cab, he
responds . . . with . . .

Rowcna, emerging into the bright sunlight, felt her
mot)th open in astonishment.

Parked in front of the rcgular car queue was the biggest,
longest, most ecologically unsound car she'd ever laid eyes


4

on. It stretched out in front of her, gleaming, polished and
totally ostentatious. It had three back doors. The chauffeur
was loading her suitcases into a vast trunk with infinite care,
as if they were Louis Vuitton filled with the crown jewels
instead of her scruffy T-shirts and Marks & Sparks pyjamas.
As he walked round and held open the third of the back
doors, she forced herself to stop gawping and try to behave
naturally. What would Josh do? Probably wouldn't bat an
eyelid.

A small knot of people had gathered outside the airport
doors, watching the scene curiously. Rowena felt centuries
of gentlemanly Scottish restraint screaming in protest at
such vulgarity. She blushed scarlet and hastily clambered
into the car, shutting the doors, thankful that this monster
came with one-way mirrored glass. At least nobody could
see who it was in here. They'd probably assume it was
Madonna . . .


Forty minutes later, she'd relaxed a little. The car was so
smooth it felt like they were floating. She'd called London
from the in-car phone, switched on the TV and tuned it to
MTV- wherever you go in the world, some things stay the
same - and pulled out her Walkman. Remind yourself why
you're here.

Atomic Mass's newest, best demo flooded into her head
as they spun through midtown Manhattan. Dazzled by the
beauty of the city - soaring skyscrapers, vast neon billboards
- she settled into her leather seat and just let herself
enjoy it. Oh, she could get used to this, Rowena thought, as
they turned off Times Square, h.eading for the studios. So
what ifKrebs wanted to send a limo? He might still agree to
$5o,ooo for a new band. After all, they were very good.
And like Josh said, he was a risk-taker.

A little voice inside her head said she bad to be kidding.
There was no way this was gonna work.
And Oberman had told herto make it work.
Jesus.

The limo purred to a halt. Rowena switched offher musi


II5

nd looked outside; they'd stopped in front of a square,
low-slung, black granite building.

'We're here, ma'am,' the chauffeur announced. 'If you
care to go inside, I'll take your cases on to the hotel for you.'

'Thank you,' said Rowena, nervously overtipping him
$2o and stepping outside.

Her reflection gazed back at her from the car: hair long
and tousled, eyes tired from the flight. She should have
freshened up at the hotel first. Oh well. Too late now!

Rowena took a deep breath and wlked into the reception
area, automatic doors hissing open in front of her. The
studio lobby was decorated in sumptuous apricot tones, a
Persian rug spread on the carpet, dark mahogany furniture
everywhere, soft lighting arrangements on the ceiling and

l walls giving an instantly soothing effect, and a kidney
shaped reception desk bearing a huge crystal vase crammed
full of White roses.

'Can I help you?' asked the immaculately dressed receptionist,
giving Rowena a disapproving once-over. She felt
hopelessly awkward, standing in this bloody palace in her
crumpled clothes, with her two-bit little demo tape and
pocket-change offer for Michael Krebs. Lord, even his
receptionists wore Chanel.

Tm here to see Mr Krebs,' she said, as confidently as she
could. 'He's expecting me. My name is Rowena Gordon,
from Musica Records in London.'

The girl tapped the name into her computer and gave
Rowena a more friendly look. 'Yes, ma'am. I'll just let him
know you're here.'

She spoke quietly into an internal phone, then turned
back to her. 'That's fine. If you want to walk right through
those doors, someone will meet you and escort you up to his
office,' she added, giving Rowena the benefit of several
thousand dollars' worth of cosmetic dentistry. Rowena
nodded briskly and went though into the main recording

complex, feeling her heartbeat speeding up.

Come on. You can do this.

'Ms Gordon?' asked another polite minion. 'If you'll just


ii6

astep this way - ' and Rowena followed the guy through
three studios to the main office, where he held open the door
for her with a beaming smile.

Rowena tucked her hair back behind her ears and stepped
into the producer's office. It was a large room all gleaming chrome, black leather and hi-tech luxury. Michael Krebs
was working on something at a desk made entirely of cut
glass, heaped with phones, faxes, an expensive-looking
IBM and a range of sound equipment.

Her heart sank. Offering this guy $5o,ooo would be an
insult. But that was her goddamn budget! As far as her boss
would go . . .

'Michael Krebs?' she asked.

He stood up, punched a few keys on his computer and
turned round to her, smiling.

'Rowena, good to see you,' Krebs said, walking over to
her and shaking her hand warmly. She noticed the way his
eyes ran qraickly over her body, checking her out. 'Josh
Oberman's a big fan of yours. Told me everything about
you, except why you're here.'

Tm grateful you could find time to fit me in,' Rowena
replied. 'And thank you for the car.'

She was dismayed to find herself blushing. Oh, God!
Why hadn't she gone to the hotel and changed first? He was
absolutely, totally drop-dead gorgeous.

Michael Krebs was in his early forties, about twenty years
older than her. He was tall, muscular and lean, with
intelligent black eyes and grey hair round his temples. He
carried himself with a natural air of total confidence and
power; Rowena noticed he was w.earing a sweatshirt, jeans
and sneakers, no Rolex or jewellery or any kind of status
symbol. Even these magnificent offices had no gold or
platinum discs anywhere in sight, and she knew he could
have wallpapered the entire complex with them if he'd
wanted to. Everything about him said I don't need to boast.

But it was the eyes that she couldn't get o¢er; mesmeric,
gripping eyes, fringed with the most incredible thick dark
lashes, lush as a woman's. She could not break his gaze. She

II7


felt transparent, as if he could see right through her.

A small point of sexual heat started to burn between
Rowena's legs.

'The car? That was nothing. We keep some on-site for the

acts that record here,' Michael said. He waved to the black
leather couch. 'Won't you have a seat? I hate to keep you
standing up. You must be exhausted.'

'Thanks,' she said, sitting down and reaching for her
demo. She felt sick with nerves. Michael Krebs was a
world-class producer, and she'd flown across the Atlantic to
ask him to work with a totally unknown act with a Mickey
Mouse budget. She didn't know where to start.

Krebs pulled a chair up opposite her and sat down,
completely relaxed. What a great-looking girl. Fantastic

, hair. Very sensual lips. He had a brief vision of her giving

head with those lips. And endless legs, Jesus, a guy could get

lost in t'here. Almost made him wish he was single. It was
too cute, the way she was obviously completely terrified
and doing such a lousy job of hiding it. Poor kid, Oberman
had probably got some crazy idea into his head and sent a
stunning babe over here to do his dirty work for him.

"What had the old buzzard said? That this kid was bright,
ballsy and a great talent scout? 'A natural feel for rock
music,' wasn't that it?

Looking like that? Sure.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?' he asked gently.
Rowena started, and fished in her bag for the demo tape.
She held it out to him. 'We'd like you to produce this band
we've signed,' she said. 'We think you'd be perfect for
them. They're called Atomic Mas's.'

Michael Krebs shook his head, perplexed. 'Atomic Mass?
Doesn't ring any bells,' he said. 'I must've blanked out.
Remind me what their last album was called.'

Rowena swallowed hard. 'They've never made a record,'

she replied. 'This would be the first.'

He stared at her. 'Oberman wants me to work on a baby

act? Now I've heard everything,' he said. 'He's gonna spend

that kind of money on a new band?'


118

h, God, thought Rowena. 'We could offer you' -Josh
will kill me- 'two hundred thousand dollars.'

Krebs, amazed, broke into a huge grin. 'Did I hear you
right? Two hundred thousand?'

Rowena nodded. She was still clutching her little demo
like an idiot. He hadn't bothered to take it from her.

'Ms Gordon, you've been misinformed,' Krebs told her.
'I do have a space in my schedule for the next two months,
but the price is a million. At least. And I never work with
unestablished bands.'

'But wouldn't you like to break a new act? From scratch? I
thought you were a risk-taker, Mr Krebs,' Rowena sai,d,
rather coldly. To her surprise she was getting angry. How
could he just dismiss Atomic like that when he hadn't even
heard them?

Michael heard the challenge in her voice. Interesting.
Maybe the girl did have some balls after all.

'I used to rio that. But times have changed,' he answered,
equally coldly. 'And the price is one million dollars,
minimum.'

'We don't have a million.'

'I wouldn't get out of bed for two hundred thousand.'
Rowena stood up, furious.

Too bad Oberman hadn't bothered to explain the rules of
the game to the girl, Michael thought. She seemed smart and passionate. He'd give a good report of her back to Josh
when he rang him up to yell at him for wasting his time. But
that was Oberman for you; the guy was completely fucking
insane, he played byhis own rules.

'I'm sorry you've hada wasted t.rip,' he said, smiling at

hel'.

Rowena lost her temper. 'Times have changed, haven't
they? You used to be a hero, Mr Krebs. A real visionary.
Christ, I had articles about you on my walls at college. It's
incredible what a few platinum records will do, isn't it?'

She threw the demo at him. 'Take it, it's a present. Might
remind you what a bunch of teenagers who give a damn are
capable of. But I guess you don't care about music any

Omore. Just the chinging of cash tills, right?'

She spraug to her feet. 'l)on't bother to get up. I'll show
myself out.'

Astonished, Michael Krebs watched her go.


Rowena turned rouud in the shower, letting the hard jets of
water pummel her neck and shoulders, massaging away the
strains in her muscles. She pushed her long wet hair down her back, squeezing the conditioner out of it, rinsing it
clean.

There's nothing like washing your hair to refresh you,
she thought, switching the water offand pulling on one of
the hotel's soft white bathrobcs. The shower had made her
whole body feel alive again, her nipples hard from the cool
air of the room, her skin warm and vital. She would
definitely go out tonight. She'd slept, and she felt good.
Maybe she'd buy a copy of the Village Voice in the lobby and
check out what bands were playing.

Rowena had one night in New York. She wasn't going to
waste it sitting in her room. Outside her window, Manhattan
stretched in front of her, sparkling in the night, traffic
laaoving through the gridlike roads in melting rivers of
light. It was exciting and alive. She wanted to move into the
slipstream, to be part of it.

There was a loud knock ou the door.

'Come in,' Rowcna yelled, belting her robe. Great. She
was starving. She'd ordered a huge pastrami sandwich on

rye and a chilled beer- when in Rome, after all . . .
'Hello again,' Michael Krebs said, walking in.
Rowenajumped out of her skin, automatically clutching
the bathrobe tighter arouud her. 'What are you doing here?'
she gasped.

'We had the hotel addrcss, rcmcmbcr? We scnt your
luggage ahead of you,' he reminded her. "I thought I better

come and see you before you flew back.'

She didn't rcply.

'You know, it's been a long time since somebody told me
to go to hell,' Krebs remarked, glancing at the slita lines of


I20

her body under the robe. Stop that! he ordered himself.
'Oberman said you were pushy. He wasn't wrong.'

Rowena, embarrassed, started to apologize, but the
producer cut her off. 'So I listened to your band. I was
curious,' he said. 'They're pretty good.'

'Yes they are,' she agreed, holding her breath. Was he
about to say what she hoped he was?
'OK, I'll do it,' Michael Krebs told her, black eyes
glittering. 'But not for two hundred thousand. If I'm gonna
chance working with these boys, I want a stake in their
future. Musica doesn't pay me at all, but I get a five per cent
royalty. Of the gross.'

'Five per cent gross? That could be a lot of money,'
Rowena countered, trying to contain her excitement.

Krebs looked at her. 'Don't push it, kid. Do we have a
deal, or what?'

'Yes, sir,' Rowena said, feeling triumph flood through
her. 'Thank,ou, Mr Krebs. I'm sure you won't regret it.'

Michael Krebs! Michael Krebs was going to produce
Atomic Mass! It was the coup of the fucking century!

Td better not. And you can call me Michael,' Krebs said,
enjoying her reaction. He checked her out again. His wife
was visiting her parents this week, and he didn't have to get
home. And this girl was intriguing him; talented, brave,
smart, a little reckless... Well, he rationalized, I'm
working with her now.

'Why don't you get dressed, Rowena?' he said. Tll show
you New York.'

I2I


Chapter Twelve


'So it's between those two, then,' he chairman concluded,

toying with one of the files on his desk.

'I would have said so.'

Nathan Rosen stared out of the glass walls of the
penthouse office, somewhat uneasily. He didn't normally
suffer from vertigo, but this was the sixtieth floor, the
summit of the American Magazines tower. It was a famous
quirk of Matt Gowers, the CEO, that the walls of the top
floor should be three feet of clear glass, so he could survey
the whole of New York, right out to the ocean. 'Because
journalism is observation,' Gowers had reportedly said.

Nathan Rosen was new to the American Magazines
board, and he wasn't used to the effect. Anyway, he
preferred to convince himself it was the view that made him
nervous, not the fact that he was secretly dating one of the
candidates he was recommending to his boss.

'Kind of young, aren't they?' Gowers commented.
Joe Goldstein was thirty; Topaz Rossi, twenty-three.
'Yes, sir. Child prodigies,' Nathan smiled, only forty
one himself. 'But they've both proved they can run
magazines. Circulation and revenue are up and costs are
down on all the books they cover.'

Gowers nodded, acknowledging this. 'I have a lot of

money riding on this project.'

'Yes sir, I know.'

'Joe Goldstein's got an MBA, from Wharton,' said the
chairman. 'Does Rossi?'

'She's completing her first year. She's taking a course in
the evenings and at weekends, doesn't want to take time out

I22


from the job.'

'Is the programme Ivy League accredited?'

'Yes it is.'

Gowers considered this. 'That's a good attitude,' he said.
'That's good. Have these two kids met each other yet?'

'No. Goldstein's only just moved to New York. He used
to work out of the Los Angeles office.'

'Get them together, Nathan,' the chairman ordered.
'They've got a right to check out the competition.'


Joe Goldstein was in a bad mood.

I just don't want this shit, he thought angrily. I don't need
any of this bullshit. It's not like we have time to waste here.

He fiddled aimlessly with an already perfect bow tie.
God, he hated wearing a tux. It made him feel stiff and
awkward, and he thought he looked like a waiter. But you
don't turn down an invitation to dinner with Nathan Rosen,
director of A'merican Magazines, East Coast. And if it says
'Black Tie,' you wear black tie.

A handsome and annoyed young man glared back at him
from the mirror. Joe regarded his reflection coolly, his
impassive gaze sweeping across the jet-black hair trimmed
ruthlessly short, the dark, intense eyes flecked with silver,
the broad, clean-shaven jaw. Goldstein was darkly attractive,
his smooth skin tanned to a deep brown from the
California sun, and he had a muscled chest and long sturdy
legs, uncomfortably encased in stiff black linen. He
frowned.

At thirty Joe Goldstein was resolutely single, and doing a
pretty good impression of the Man Who Had Everything.
He had been born the eldest of four sons to a moderately
wealthy Massachusetts retailer, and the power and responsibility
of being a big brother had lent him the air of
someone who naturally expects to be put in charge. Joe had
been ambitious all his life. He'd excelled in high school,
firstly to show his brothers, Cliff, Martin and Sam, how to
do it, and later because excelling had become second nature.
Joe Goldstein made straight As, was a quarterback in the


I23

football team, and was voted 'Most Likely to Succeed' three
years running. His parents, who believed in hard work,
God and family values, set standards for their eldest son
which he followed almost absolutely.

Joe helped old people across the road, gave part of his
allowance to charity every week, and stood when a lady
entered the room. Only two things prevented Goldstein
from being a caricature of the perfect Republican All
American boy: first he was Jewish; second, he was an
inveterate womanizer.

The Goldstein boys had been sent to a private school that
stretched the limits of what their parents could afford. It was
an old, prestigious establishment, and although they were not the only non-Christian pupils attending, they were part
of a tiny minority, swamped in a sea of rich Boston kids
with trust funds and establishment backgrounds. Joe never
felt completely secure there. One day he went to check on
his youngest brother, Sam, then aged six, and saw him
sobbing in a corner of the playground. Some older boys
were kicking and punching him and shouting abuse. The
eldest was repeatedly giving the Nazi salute, and appeared
to be trying to force little Sam to do the same. Joe tore across
the concrete.

He was seventeen, twice as big as any of them, and when
he crashed into the group they instantly laid off his baby
brother and looked terrified.

Two of them burst into tears. The ringleader, a fourteen
year-old, spat at him. 'Kike,' he said.

He gave the Nazi salute, right in Goldstein's face. He
wasn't about to worry over a punch or two. Everyone knew
what the Yid quarterback was like; he wouldn't really hurt a
kid half his size.

Joe glanced at his brother. 'You OK?' he asked.

Sam snuffled yes.

Joe grabbed hold of the ringleader's right wrist and held it
in a vicelike grip. He turned to the other bullies, who were
watching horrified.

'This is what kikes do to fascists,' he said.

I24


Then he broke his arm.


None of them were bothered again, but Joe never forgot
that incident. He ceased making any attempt to fit in socially
with people he despised. From then on, he became highly
selective of his friends, choosing to spend time only with the
boys whose morals and dedication matched his own.
Academic achievement became a matter of pride, too. Joe
worked harder and won bigger, as if proving his worth to
himself. His only distractions were sport, and later,
women.

Girls came easily to Goldstein from puberty onwards,
and he took full advantage of the situation. He used to tell
himself it was because he was a football player, but once he
reached Harvard and turned to the Lampoon instead of the
sportsfield, the flow of women did not dry up. Nor did it
dry up once he graduated cure laude and lunged straight into
Wharton Business School.

And Joe indulged. Why not? He was good-looking,
muscular and well-endowed. He was also, more importantly,
a skilful, sensitive lover who took care that his
partners were pleased. He practised safe sex and was upfront
about what he wanted. Joe had a strictly defined set of rules:
he didn't get involved with girls who got involved. He liked
female company, he liked sleeping.with women, but that
was it, and he made that clear. And even under those
conditions they flocked to him, Jewish girls and shiksas,
white girls and black girls, Asian girls and Hispanics. Joe
didn't discriminate. He just liked women, all kinds of
women.

There was only one type of girl Golds.tein didn't get on
with, and certainly didn't want in his bed, and that was the
driven, aggressive career woman. He thought feminism
was OK, to a degree - that is, he thought ladies should be respected. But he didn't like women who pretended to be
men. Joe admired compassion and nurturing in women;
protecting and providing he reserved for himself. His old
fashioned values ran all the way down the line. He thought


I25

Naomi Wolf's The Beauty Myth was a bunch of hysterical

nonsense. He knew a lot of men privately agreed with him.
Joe Goldstein had turned out a nice guy, but a sexist.

Joe did not like women like Topaz Rossi. He didn't like
having to eat dinner with them. And he particularly didn't
like having to pretend to compete with them for the
managing director's job on a new, upmarket economic title.
A man's title. A title clearly earmarked for him, but one he'd
have to pretend to compete for, so American Magazines
could look politically correct.

He hated to waste time.


Topaz sighed. 'God,' she remarked to a pigeon, 'I envy that
guy.'

She'd never met Joe Goldstein and didn't know much
about him. One thing she was certain of, however, he was a
man. Therefore he was to be envied at times like these. For
Nate and Mr Goldstein, 'Black Tie' were two simple
words, not a command to strike fear into the soul.

She twisted round in her sixth outfit, wondering if this
would do. She was wearing a short skirt of supple brushed
teather from Norma Kamali, a chocolate-brown silk shirt
from DKNY, and slingback mules from St Laurent. A
mixed heap of gold bangles jingled on her right arm, and her
slender legs shimmered in light-reflecting hose from
Wolford's. It was an aggressive, expensive look, the sexy
but-businesslike style that was the height of fashion at the
moment. And after all, fashion was what she did for a
living, so looking good and looking professional were
synonymous for her these days

Outside her window, Central Park shone green and gold,
bathed in the evening sun. Topaz permitted herselfa smile.
Even by New York standards, her rise had been meteoric.
She'd only been features editor of US Woman for a few
months before the managing editor's job at Girlfriend magazine fell vacant when the boss left to get married. At
first, Topaz hadn't even considered applying. She'd only
just got a major promotion, and anyway, nobo.dy gets to

I26


run a flagship teen title at twenty-three. But then the board
had announced internally that they were opening the
vacancy to group tender; any executive or senior enough
editor could pitch for it, anonymously, by submitting a
blind portfolio of ideas, covering everything from layout to
advertising strategies to subscriptions. The portfolios
would be anonymous, so, like an exam, the judges would
not know whom they'd liked or disliked until the results

were out.

The initiative had come direct from the chief executive,
Mr Gowers. It was an attempt to bolster internal competition,
and Topaz realized that as a features editor, she was
eligible to apply - and nobody would know if she failed.

She changed her mind. For two months she immersed
herself in teen fiction, teen music, teen television and
hundreds of teenage magazines. She researched statistics on
box-office young audience figures and called account
executives "at fifteen major advertising agencies. She
worked nights and weekends and told nobody she was
pitching, not even Nathan.

The dummy issue she came up with was dynamite, a
mixture of baby feminism, cheap makeover ideas, New
Kids on the Block and Sega games. The accompanying
dossier of financial projections and consumer profiles was
eighteen pages of taut research.

Topaz's submission was outstanding, so much the best it
wasn't even funny. She became the youngest managing
editor in the history of the group, and within six months the
new-look Girlfriend had increased its market share by 6 per

cent.

She was beautiful, successful, and just twenty-three years
old.

She became a media property herself, although Nathan,
on his way to the board and once again her immediate
superior, forbade her to agree to a Vanity Fair profile. 'Sell
magazines for American, not Cond6 Nast,' he said.

Oh yeah? thought Topaz to herself, adjusting a cuff.
Somehow she suspected the new director had a more

personal reason for wanting the spotlight away from her
vicinity. And that attitude prcscntcd her with a big problcm,
one she would soon have to turn her attention to.

But forget about that, for now. Tonight was not about
her personal life. When it was announced that American
would be looking for an editor for Ecottomic Monthly from
inside the company, Topaz had spent two whole weeks on
her application. She had no cxperiencc of finance, or meu's
magazines, but she put her ideas across with such passion
and clarity that Nathan had to pu her forward to Gowers.
Although he'd made it clear that the other contender was by
far the favourite.

So tonight was about this Goldstein guy, and the
formidable opposition he represented to her next step up the
ladder. Because Topaz was determined to prove that a
woman was good for more than one woman's title. She

wantcd to demonstrate that she was an all-rounder.
She wantcd to be a player. She wanted Ecottomic Monthly.


Nathan Rosen, the newest director of American Magazines,
igraycd Topaz would bchavc herself. She was the only
clement in his life he couldn't control.

He paced round his apartment, checking for the millionth
time the immaculate table setting of Irish lineu and Italian
glassware. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and
looked round the drawing room, finding some comfort in
the emblems of his success all around him - the marble
fireplace, the small C6zannc ha, nging above the Chippendale
cabinet. The place was a model of discreet bachelor
luxury, from the soft, buttery leather armchairs to the
wafcr-thin stereo system, currently playing 'Einc Kleinc
Nachtmusik'. This was one ofthc most exclusive co-ops on the Upper East Side.

Not bad for forty-one, Nathan reminded himself. I can
handle Rossi.

He stopped pacing and smiled. Maybe that last thought
could have been better phrased. It was his inability to stop


I28

handling Topaz that was causing him problems.

Rosen had been seeing Topaz ever since that wild night
when he fucked her over the desk in the Westside editor's
office. He couldn't hclp himself. To this day, he could
remember her teasiug over that meal, taunting him with her
body and her beauty, challeuging him to come and take her.
Well, he had, and it'd been fantastic. It had been the best sex
he'd ever known. Nathau had no doubt at all that half the
pleasure of that night had derived from the fact that he'd
been fightiug his desire for Topaz from the momeut she'd
walked into his office.

The million reasons why he shouldn't have fucked her
then remained just as true now - she was so young, he was
her boss. And if auything, they seemed to have been
anaplified by time. There was a larger downside too, given
that those two years had seen her make editor of one
magazine, and him become a director, with responsibility
for New York and the rest of the East Coast.

Which led to situations like this. Where he, Nathan, was
going to sit on a panel choosing between two candidates.
And he was dating one of them.

Topaz told him the simple answer was to just admit it. To
see her publicly. To tell Matt Gowers that they were lovers,
and see what the CEO said about it, which she insisted
would be uothing at all.

Nathan wasn't so sure.

And the fact was, he was totally embarrassed about
becoming a living clich6- 4-year-old mau with his
23-year-old girlfriend. What did they call them? Jennifers,
yeah, that was it. It was the modern equivalent ofweariug a

T-shirt saying MIDL1FE CRISIS IN POGR.ESS! And he was not

having a goddamn midlife crisis! He was doing very well
and he knew exactly where he was going - two doors down
the hall, to Matt Gowers' office. By the time he was fifty
four, he thought his life's ambition would be within his
reach.

On the other hand, he couldn't give Topaz up. She was
no Jennifer, no dumb ditzy blonde. She was one hell of a

129


strong, confident girl, and a natural print woman. Her
intelligence and enthusiasm charmed the pants offhim. So to speak. Oh God, the sex.., he couldn't help being
pleased that she wanted him, when he knew for a fact that
half the guys in the company would give a month's wages to
touch her breasts once. She had evolved sexually too: she
would throw him down on a bed, mount him and walk out
when she'd finished, just as often as she wanted him to
dominate. Topaz needed variety and experimentation.
Which was partly why he stayed so hot for her.

He was going to have to make a decision; she'd said to
him last week that she either moved in or moved on. God
Almighty! Rosen thought. To have Topaz around all the
time.., that red hair, those creamy breasts, everything
about her that drove him nuts, wandering around this place

all the time. And she'd need satisfying, all the time... The idea was breathtaking!
The idea was terrifying!

He'd asked for grace, to be allowed to think about it after
this selection process, but she refused flat out. 'What you
and I do out of hours has nothing to do with business,' she
'said. He could see her dearly right now, moving closer to
him, her hand on his thigh, pushing that tricky, sexy,
maddening tongue into his ear.

'I can't be patient. I want you. I love you,' she whispered,
and Nathan Rosen had felt the familiar silver tendrils of
desire trawl across his body, sending little hooks and claws
digging into his groin, and he'd had to get her out of the
office.

He passed a hand through' his" greying hair, unsure
whether to be furious or elated. Man, he never thought he'd
be going through this again. Checking into hotels at
lunchtime because his need for a woman was so urgent he
couldn't wait.

The selection procedure, Rosen, Nate reminded himself,
dragging his thoughts back to this dinner. Maybe that
wouldenable him to prove to the board that there was no
undue favouritism going on here, because, he w.as certain,

I30


he'd be voting for Joe Goldstein. A new title like Economic
Monthly was designed to be run by somebody like Joe. Rosen
didn't think that Topaz, smart though she was, talented as
she had proved herself to be, was yet ready for a serious,
big-budget, male-orientated title like this one, and Nathan
planned to vote impartially for the best candidate for the
job.

And unless Joe really screwed his application up, that
would not be Topaz Rossi.

She wouldn't hold it against him. She was fair where
business matters were concerned. His only worry was that
she'd tease him in front of Joe, let something slip. If that
happened, his relationship with Goldstein, which he
valued, would be jeopardized.

The doorbell rang. Oh God, Nathan Rosen thought.

He let his guests in, Joe just before Topaz. They had
arrived within seconds of each other.

'Nate Rosen,'Joe greeted his old friend.

'Hey, Joe, how are you finding Manhattan?' Nathan
welcomed his first discovery, grasping him in a bear hug.

Rosen had first noticed Goldstein at the Lampoon and
hired him while he was still at Wharton, to work in the
finance division of two titles. Goldstein had been another
sensational success. Nathan smiled at his friend; what a
great talent-spotter I am, he thought complacently. He had
no doubt that Joe would be as brilliant a manager of the new
title as he already was of American Scientist, Executive Officer and Week in Review.

'Hi, Topaz,' he added.

He wished she'd gone for something a little more formal;
the best he could hope for was that she'd mke a useful
friend and ally in Joe. She could learn a good deal from him,
he had a grasp of formal business strategies that were
outside Topaz's experience. He doubted Goldstein would
approve of this look for a businesswoman; it was too
feminine, too distracting.

Well, it was distracting him, goddamnit.

'Joe Goldstein, meet Topaz Rossi, our managing editor at

Girlfriend,' Rosen introduced them. 'I know you've seen
Joe's r6sum6, Topaz.'

'Nice to meet you,' said Topaz, offering Joe her hand to
shake. Why hadn't he been sent her r6sum6? She sized him
up. Handsome, muscular, pleased with himself. She disliked
him on sight.

Goldstein shook hands with her briskly, suppressing his
annoyance. He was being asked to compete with this? The
girl was barely out of diapers, and just look at that skirt. No
need to ask how she'd got this far this young. He'd never

seen so much T&A in all his life.

'How do you do,' he said.

Nathan handed them both a glass of champagne. 'Let's
eat,' he suggested.


They sat down to a starter of Jerusalem artichokes with
asparagus butter.

'So, Ms Rossi,' Joe said. 'Do you know much about
economics?'

Rosen shrank in his chair. Oh no. Oh no. Please, no . . .

'Why wouldn't I know about economics, Mr Goldstein?'
asked Topaz, angered by his tone. 'Because I'm a woman?'

Not only a bimbo, thought Joe, a militant feminist
bimbo. Wonderful! OK, you want the gloves off, cutie?
Fine.

'It was an innocent question, Ms Rossi. Perhaps you'd
prefer it if I were more specific. What nation do you see as
having the greatest potential for growth in the next five
years?' he enquired, waiting indifferently for the inevitable
reply: 'Japan'.

Topaz considered for a few seconds. 'Korea,' she replied.
'Although the question's way too general. How can anyone
accurately predict where we'll be in two years, let alone
five?'

Joe was surprised, but caught himself. So she'd read a few
back issues of The Economist. So what?

He decided to play hardball. 'Korea is yesterday's news,'

he said. 'You should be looking to China. Gro.wth rates


I32

indicate-'

'Yesterday's news!' Topaz interrupted. I'll tell you
what's yesterday's news: looking at the provinces which
border Hong Kong and assuming that the rest of China can
get just as rich just as quick, without the whole economy
totally overheating.-'

'There's nothing to stop it from doing so,' Joe snapped.
'But doubtless fashion shoots in Beijing have made you an
expert.'

Topaz flushed. She knew all Goldstein's existing titles
were aimed at the exact same market as Economic Monthly, totally unlike her own. 'I'm an expert at selling magazines,'
she retorted.

Unnoticed to either of them, Nathan had sunk his head in
his hands.

He'd known this damn dinner was a stupid idea.


'Well, Rosefl, how did they get along?' Gowers asked.

'I - I think it's safe to say that there will be a healthy spirit
of competition for this title, sir,' said his director.

The chairman chuckled. 'Fireworks, were there?'

'It was the Fourth of July, sir,' said Nathan.


Over the next two months, the battle for Economic Monthly became the American Magazines spectator sport of choice.
Joe and Topaz were scrupulously polite to each other at
management meetings, but that was the extent of their cooperation.
People were fascinated by the open rivalry, and
betting on the board's decision became a minor cottage
industry, although after the first we.ek nobody would accept
a bet on Goldstein, even at 15 to I on.. Only the staff of Girlfriend, US Woman and a few Westside reporters, who'd
watched their former colleague pull off wildly improbable
promotions twice already, would risk putting money on
Topaz. Joe Goldstein, after all, was five years older, had his
MBA, and ran three books to Topaz's one - all of them
pitched at the educated, affluent male.

The more Joe saw of Topaz Rossi, the less he liked her. At

the second editors' meeting they attended together, she
chewed him out for opening the door for her. Goldstein
hardened his resolve. So be it. As far as he was concerned,
she had now renounced all special consideration to which a
lady was entitled.

Topaz took her seat, laughing inwardly at Goldstein's
face when she'd flown at him. She did it on purpose to
annoy him. Goldstein was the worst type of jerk; he put
women on pedestals and gave them no real respect at all.
And on top of her dislike for his fittitude problem, she was
well aware that the whole building thought that Economic
Monthly was as good as assigned to Joe already. They
dismissed her chances, and she blamed him for that.

Early in the meeting, Jason Richman, who'd replaced
Rosen as Westside's editor, discussed his forthcoming series
on leading women clergy.

Joe laughed. 'As Dr Johnson remarked,' he said, '"a
woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hinder
legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done
at all. "'

There was a hush around the table as the execs waited to

'see if Topaz Rossi would come back. She didn't disappoint
them.

'As Topaz Rossi remarked,' she mimicked him. 'Dr
Johnson was a stupid asshole who probably couldn't get it
up.'

There was laughter.

'Why don't you just back off, and save us both some
time?'Joe murmured to Topaz.when they left the room.

'Go fuck yourself,' she hissed. 'I could do the job just as
well as you.'

'Oh, don't worry, honey,' said Joe. 'There's a place for
you at Economic Monthly - I've always got room for an
assistant with a cute tush.'

He patted her on the backside and walked out, leaving
Topaz speechless with fury.

The next morning, Executive Officer began running the
first in a series of in-depth profiles of leading .economic


34

igures;Joe Goldstein, the managing editor, was personally
interviewing Alan Greenspan of the Federal Reserve. The
article received wide acclaim, and was discussed on
WHRT's Good Morning Manhattan.

Topaz Rossi and Joe Goldstein would present to the
board in six weeks' time.

fChapter Thirteen


'Let's look at the situation,' Joshu Oberman said.

He pointed to the bright graphics on the presentation
stand, showing the board of Musica Records what they
wanted to see. Profits were up. Costs were down. And for
the first time in years, Musica had some promising new
acts.

'We call be happy with the results we have now,' he told
them. 'Sam Nell and Rowena Gordon have each signed
three good acts. Sam prefers to concentrate on mainstream
pop, and Rowena has managed to find us talent from
various' - he groped for the formal marketing term - 'niche
sectors. Her soul singer, Roxana Perdita, had a debut album
that went silver, and a rave act, Bitter Spice, has the number
eight single this week.'

Blank faces greeted this summary around the table.
Oberman sighed inwardly. Why did he bother? The bottom
line was the only music to their ears.

'And Sam's bands have done equally well,' he concluded.
'But 1 feel that we are losing market share by limiting our
search for talent to England and Europe.'

'But we have no base in America,' objected Maurice
LeBec, Presidcnt, of Musica France.

'Which is what I propose to set up,' Joshua replied. 'It's
true that we've always been a European compauy. But
being the only major label in the world not to have a base in
the States is beconfiug a liability.'

Hans Bauer, Presidcnt of Musica Holland, sniffed
sccptically.

Josh took his meaning at once. You Woldd say tit.at. You're


136

an American. Bauer was his main rival for the job of
chairman of Musica Worldwide, when John Watson retired
next year.

'Gentlemen,' the old man went on, 'I need hardly remind
you that only the English company has successfully found
any new acts that sold albums last year. Now I have an
executive with a particular gift for developing offbeat
talent. Just the sort of talent that's crowding New York.
And for her to operate properly she needs a company base
there. I don't want to lease her out to Warners or PolyGram
and have them poach her.'
'How much will this cost?' the chairman asked.
Oberman named a figure.

'That's a lot of money,' Hans said disapprovingly.

'We could make it back offthree big records.'

'Just how talented is this girl, Joshua?' the chairman
asked.

Oberman smiled at his boss. 'John,' he said, 'Michael
Krebs is producing her act for free.'


'Do it again, Joe,' Krebs insisted.

Rowena sat on a spare chair behind the production
console, watching them work. Joe Hunter, the singer, was
laying down vocals for 'Karla', the album's big ballad.

'Rowena, make him stop,'Joe said into the mike, so she
could hear. 'This has to be against the bloody Geneva
Convention!'

'Michael's in charge,' she shrugged helplessly, grinning
at him. 'Far be it from Musica to interfere in the creative
process. '

'This is the fourteenth time we've done this take,
Michael,' the singer complained. 'And it's one bloody line
of the song . . .'

'Come on, Joe, you'll get it,' Krebs ordered him implacably.
'We don't settle for second best, right? Not for Atomic
Mass. Go again.'

'Slavedriving bastard,' said the singer, but he did it again.
Rowena hugged herself for pure pleasure. It was so good '


37

to be involved like this, exactly what she'd wanted. Joe and
the rest of the boys were all friends of hers now, and Barbara
Lincoln had quit her job at the record company to manage
them. So Rowena had got to be involved at every stage of
their career - finding a live agent, getting them a good
accountant and planning the tour, as well as the normal
A&R stuff like supervising marketing. She cared like hell
about all her acts, but Atomic were the only band that kept
her up at night.

'That's good,' Krebs agreed. 'You can go from "it's good
to see you again" now.'

'Wow, the second line, 'Joe growled sarcastically, but he
looked pleased.

Michael glanced at Rowena and winked.

He was wearing a black sweater and black jeans and he
looked amazing. Rowena thought Michael should live in
black. It picked out his eyes. It made him even more
attractive than usual.

She loved to be with him.

It had started in New York four months ago, when he'd
come to the hotel and said he'd show her the city.

That wasn't fair. He'd had her at a disadvantage - first he
blew her out, then he offered her the break of the fucking
century, then he put her in another of those monster black
limos and showed her some of the sights. A man whom
Rowena had hero-worshipped for years, whom she'd
literally fantasized about talking to, was driving her to the
Russian Tea Rooms for dinner, and ordering her strawberries
and champagne. Then he took her to an Aerosmith
concert at Madison Square Gardens, where they had
access-all-areas passes and got to stand at the side of the
stage.

Everyone they met treated Michael like a king. Rowena
felt dizzy from the glory of it.

Krebs was intense. That was the main thing about him.
She'd met guys as good-looking as he was, or at least she
thought so - but never, never, had she found someone so
completely in control of every situation. He'd decided that


I38

Rowena Gordon was of interest to him, and that was it. At
the Aerosmith show, hc'd introduced her to so mauy record
moguls they dissolved iuto a smiling blur. She was
'Musica's great white hope'. 'A rising star'. 'Incredibly
talented'. And Krebs had told absolutely everyone that
Rowena had personally couviuced him to produce her band
for nothing.

She'd had record company presidettts lining up to shake
her hand. Several of them offered to double her salary on the
spot.

But Roweua shook her head, smiling and overwhelmed.
'Why didn't you take them up on it?' Krebs asked.

'I owe Josh,' Rowena said simply, smiliug at him, and
Michael Krebs looked at her, her 10ng, freshly washed hair
gleaming in the bright lights, and thought how glad he was
she'd walked iuto his offices.

'Yeah, you do,' he said severely. 'And don't forget it.'
In the ca on the way home, he'd demauded Roweua tell
him her entire life story. 'I want to know ever)thing. And
you have to tell me. You owe me, because I took you to
Aerosmith.'

'Took me to a show? Michael, you're produciug nay
band.'

Krebs shook his head, giving her a smile that melted her
bones. 'You don't owe me for that, houey. I have five per
ceut of the album. I'll get mine,' and she believed him.

When the limo pulled,up outside her hotel, and Michael
kissed her hand gallantly a she got out - man, it was weird
to have an American heavy-metal producer do that -
Rowena suspected she was in big t.rouble.

And when she got to JFK the next morniug and found
that Krebs had arranged for her to be upgraded to first class,
she knew.


Her returu home had been fairytale stuff. Although he had
wauted this, Obcrman could hardly believe Rowena had
actually pulled it off. He gave her a senior manager titlc and another pay rise. Atomic Mass, meanwhilc, were


39

dumbfounded by the idea of working with Michael Krebs,
and their extreme gratitude turned into friendship, as
Rowena found them places to live in London and took
charge of their affairs. When Barbara quit to manage them,
they got even closer.

The two women had a lot in common. Barbara wasn't the
music freak Rowena had turned into, but she was cool,
logical and very ambitious. She had no interest at all in the
secretaries' gossip, or who was fucking whom, nor did she
give a damn if Manchester Unitdd won the league. The
result was that she was branded a cold bitch, stuck-up and
the rest of it. Nobody understood what Joshua Oberman
could possibly see in Ms Lincoln. Behind her back,
and sometimes even to her face, they called her 'the token
black womau', a piece of positive-discrimination window°
dressing.

Roweua knew better. In fact, Barbara made her feel
small; she'd only had to fight sexism, the disapproval of a
privileged circle and prejudice on account of her looks.
Barbara had clawed her way up by herself: law at London
University, an MBA at nightclasses, and heavy specialization
in entertainment law. Her tutors wrote her glittering
reports, her papers were published in eminent legal journals.
And then she had suffered the utter humiliation of
being turned down again and again at record companies,
always getting to the final interview, never getting hired.

'Overqualified', 'underexperienced'. What they never

said was 'Black'.

At first Barbara had thought she was being paranoid.
Maybe she was just presenting herself wrongly. But when
she asked for a list of senior black personnel at the seven
major labels from industry associations, the reply cou

firmed all her worst suspicions.

There were none.

Not 'one or two', not 'a bare handful', none.

She refused to give up. She went on trying, banging on

the Human Resources doors and doing evcrything else she
could think of. Finally, she had written a long letter to

I40


Joshua Oberman, President of Musica UK, and marked it
'Private and Personal'.

Oberman had seen her. And hc'd hired her on the spot.
Rowena learnt all this from Josh himself on the drive
back from the Retford Porterhouse, and she'd bought
Barbara lunch the next day - partly as a thank-you for
getting Obernaan to hear her tape, and partly to satisfy
her curiosity.

Now they were best friends - the first woman Rowena

had been close to since Topaz Rossi.
Whom she never thought about.
Whom she buried deep in her mind.

She was, she told herself firmly, a different person now.
One who'd totally outgrown social snobbery. One who
would never betray a friend.


Barbara enjoyed watching Rowena adjust to having money
of her own7money she'd earned, for the first time in her life,
helping her buy a flat in Holland Park, start shopping for her
food in Marks & Spencer's and, most importantly, dress
designer. Since she'd been disowned by her father, Rowena
had almost forgotten how.

'I can't believe how much this costs!' she gasped, holding
up a sexy little Krizia dress.

'If you want to be a player, you better dress that way,'
Barbara laughed, folding the dress over her arm.

Rowena abandoned the elegant, refined clothes she used
to wear in favour of yomager, brighter, more confident
stuff. Where Barbara preferred Armani, she liked to slink
around in Domaa Karan. When Barbara wore Chanel to
industry parties, Rowcna turned up in shimmering

Valentino. They complemented each other perfectly.
They were inseparable.

And then, on 5 March, Michacl Krebs arrived.


'Can you come up to Oberman's office?' Barbara askcd,
sticking her head round Rowena's door. 'Wc've got a
visitor.'

She'd gone upstairs without thinking, totally preoccupied
with how Bitter Spice were playing in the clubs. Too
preoccupied to notice the sidelong glances that Barbara was
giving her, and the jealous looks from the secretaries on the
executive floor. When her friend opened the door of the
president's office for her, Rowenajumped out of her skin.

There he was. A week before she'd expected him.
Michael Krebs, dressed in beat-up jeans and sneakers and a
Mets baseball cap, chatting to Josh Oberman as though he
did this every day of the week.

He looked so fucking gorgeous, Rowena's heart stood

still.

'Miss Gordon, we meet again,' Krebs said, giving her a
beaming smile and standing to greet her. 'Oberman, 1 tell

, you, you are so lucky to have this young lady working for

you it isn't even funny.'

Josh snorted.

'You're early, Michael,' Rowena managed.

He shrugged. 'I had a free week. I thought we might do a

little pre-production. Think you can get the band together

for me?'

"Oh, I expect we can manage that,' she replied, glad to be

on safe professional grounds.

'Good,' Krebs said, looking her over slowly. Rowena felt

a wave of desire flood through her, and she coloured,
hoping Barbara wouldn't notice.

'And you'll have to show me London, too. If I'm going to

be here for a few months, I'll need some help getting
around. '

'I'm not sure how good I'd be'as a tour guide,' Rowena

said, but Krebs shook his head.

'You'll be fine,' he said implacably.

'You can't steal nay A&R manager, Krcbs,' Obcrman
objected. 'She's got three bands to look after.-'

'Relax,' Michael said, not taking his eyes off Rowcna.
'She'll have plenty of time. I just want to show her how I
record an album.'

'You never let a record company within ten miles of your
studio,' Oberman scoffed.

Krebs turned back to his friend with a shrug. 'Rowena's
different,' he said.


For two weeks, Rowena held out. She never saw him alone.
She tried not to think about him. She kept herself busy,
going scouting for bands, attending parties, seeing stupid
amounts of films. Because Michael Krebs spelt danger.
Heady, reckless danger, the kind any intelligent girl should
avoid.

He was an extremely powerful man.
He was twenty years older than her.
He was married.

Rowena knew all that. So she did her best to resist her
feelings for him. Because whenever she did have to see
Michael - with Barbara, or with the band- she only became
more fascinated by him. More attracted to him.

Not only was the guy a legendary producer, he was also
highly intelligent and well educated, to Rowena's surprise.
He had two degrees, from the Universities of Chicago and
Boston. He was an exercise fanatic and went to the Harbour
gym in Chelsea every morning. He loved dogs. He loved
history, and made Rowena take him round the National
Gallery and the British Museum.

And he loved the rccord business. With a passion.

'I'm gonna teach you everything you need to know,' he
told her.

'You can spot talent. Ald that means the sky's the limit,'
he said.

'You're going to surpass me by miles,' he said. 'You can
conquer the world. Believe it.'

Rowena was halfembarrasscd, halftlrilled by his interest
in her. It overjoyed her to see how well Atomic were getting
on with him - Zach Freeman, the lead guitarist, and Alex
Sexton, the bassist, especially - and what incredible depth
he was bringing to the album. Even the quality of the songs
the boys were writing had improved dramatically It was as
though everybody was outdoing each other to impress'


43

Krebs. He had that effect on people, Rowena thought. Like
any born leader, he made you want desperately to please
him.

It felt like he was producing her life.

Of course, she couldn't be sure she was right about how
he felt. Maybe he was just a friend. Maybe he only wanted to
mentor her. He did flirt with her outrageously, and she
responded in kind, but there was nothing wrong with that.
He never made a pass, he never avoided questions about his
family, and he bugged Rowena about getting herself a
boyfriend. So she was confused. She told herself she was
being ridiculous.

But sometimes, when she caught him watching her in the
evenings, she thought differently.

As the days went by, Rowena's attitude changed. With

' out even admitting it to herself, she started to try to make
Michael Krebs notice her - as a woman, not a record
executive. She began to wash and condition her hair every
day. She wore Red by Giorgio Beverly Hills whenever she
went down to the studio. She selected her sexiest outfits, the
clinging grey cashmere dress by Georges Rech, the black
Donna Karan suit, the Ann Klein miniskirt. And she put on
make-up.

Michael reacted by ceasing to even flirt with her.

'He doesn't know I'm alive!' Rowena complained to
Barbara.

'Don't be pathetic. I feel like holding up a match between
you two, to see if it'll catch fire,' her best friend replied. 'The
sexual energy you guys are giving off could power the
National Grid.'

'He's married,' Rowena said, with an air of finality.

'I know he's married. That's what makes me nervous,'
Barbara replied. 'Rich, powerful men like Michael Krebs
eat girls like you for breakfast.'

'So you think all the stuffhe says about me being talented
is rubbish, then?' Rowena asked, winding a strand of blonde
hair round her fist.

Barbara shook her head. 'Actually, no,' she said. 'He

I44


believes all that. And he really likes you as a friend. The
trouble is, he's having trouble suppressing his sexual
feelings.'

'No he isn't,' Rowena said. 'He's stopped flirting with me
now. He doesn't ask me to dinner. He's even stopped
introducing me to people.'

'You want to know why? Because you're a threat now.
When it was harmless to flirt with you, he enjoyed it. But

now you've turned up the heat, and he wants you.'

'I think you're wrong.'

'You'll see,' said Barbara calmly.


So now, at the end of the session, Rowena watched Michael
wrap it up with Joe with her normal mixture of interest,
admiration and confused longing.

'OK, my man. You're out,' Krebs told the singer dryly,
flicking a couple of switches on the production console.

Joe raisel a hand to the two of them and walked straight
off the studio floor, without further pleasantries.
'Nice manners. Maybe I'm working them a little too
hard,' Krebs remarked unrepentantly.

'The song sounds good, though,' Rowena said. She
curled on her chair, a sinewy, catlike movement.

'What would you know?' he asked gruffly. 'You can't tell
take one from take fifteen. You've got ears like Beethoven.'

'Oh, I just look for the big picture. I let guys like you
sweat the details,' Rowena said, smiling at him.

There was a pause. Both of them were acutely aware that
they were now alone together.

'Are you free for dinner tonight?' Rowena asked suddenly.

Krebs pun round slowly on the big leather producer's
chair, looking at her. He'd been preparing for a moment like
this for weeks. What he would say. How he'd let her down.
How he could preserve a great friendship without risking
anything further.

Except that if she'd waited a second longer, he'd have
asked Rowena the exact same question.


I45

Dinner's just dinner.

'Why do you want to have dinner with me?' he asked,
almost savagely. 'On our own?'

'Just for the pleasure of your company,' Rowena
answered quickly, blushing bright red.

'For the pleasure of my company? That's sweet, but
you've been in my company all day,' Krebs said, hearing his
own cruelty but unable to stop himself. He couldn't tear his
eyes off Rowena, her long, slender legs tumbling out of a
light blue Krizia dress, her firm-thighs shimmering in
reflective hose, her small breasts clearly visible through the
white Bill Blass shirt she'd chosen that morning. Her long
hair fell loose and sleek around her shoulders, and her eyes
were wide, her lips parted.

For weeks now she'd been like a trembling reed in his
presence, so brimming with desire that he could practically
smell it.

For weeks now a general appreciation of an attractive,
intelligent girl had become a raging lust which he could
scarcely control.

And Michael Krebs was always in control.

He ached to fuck this woman. To really have her. To put
her through her paces in ways she'd never dreamed of.

'Hey, it's no big deal,' Rowena said, her green eyes
flashing.

'You've got a crush on me, Rowena,' Krebs insisted, his
expression unreadable. 'And I'm married. I have three
sons. '

'Nonsense, Michael,' Rowena said coldly. 'I'm not
remotely attracted to you.'

They glared at each other.

The phone rang, shattering the tension.

'Krebs,' Michael said shortly, picking it up. 'Oh, hi,
Oberman. No, it went fine. Yes, she is.' He held out the
receiver to Rowena.

'Can you come over to the office and see me?' the old man
asked. 'I need to talk to you about something urgently.
Right now, Rowena.'


I46

'Of course,' Rowena said, dragging her mind back to
business with an effort. 'Is something wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong. Just be here,' Oberman said testily,
and hung up.

She looked at Michael. 'I have to go.'

'Rowena - ' he said suddenly, but she moved away from

him, not wanting the quarrel to get any deeper.

'I really have to go. I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Call me tonight,' Krebs said, and although Rowena
wanted to tell him to go to hell, she knew he wouldn't take

no for an answer.

'I will.'

'You'd better,' Michael said, grinning at her in that way
of his that weakened her knees. She felt a great rush of
wanting sweep through her, and turned way from him as
fast as she could, almost running out of the studio.


'Tell me sSmething, Rowena. What do you think of New
York?' Oberman asked her forty minutes later, as she sat
across from his desk.

God, she looks stunning, he thought. I don't know
what's happened to this girl lately. She was always special
looking, but now she's something else. Check out that pale
blue dress with those light green eyes! Goddamn, no
wonder Stevenson had resented her! How could a babe this
beautiful be so good at her job?

'What do I think of New York?' Rowena repeated,
bewildered. Tve only been there once, Josh. It's a great city.
What can I tell you?'

'What do you think of the bands there?' Oberman pressed her.

Rowena shrugged, a cascade of blonde hair falling about
her shoulders. 'Right now, it's got the best bands in the
world.'

The old man gave a satisfied grunt. 'OK. Now let's play a
different game. What if I made you Managing Director and
don't get too excited, the title's only protocol - of a
small subsidiary? A tiny subsidiary, just a name really, an


I47

outpost company. Your only job at first would be to look
for talent, but over time I'd expcct you to build it up.
Do you think you could handlc it, working on your own
for a couple of years? With just an accountant and a
sccrctary?'

'Of course,' she replied, wondcring what the hcll he was
talking about.

'You mean that? You think you could be totally self
sufficient?'

Rowcna shifted in her chair. It- dawned on her that
Oberman wasn't just playing 'Let's Pretcnd'. 'What about
Atomic Mass? I wouldn't want to be too far from them right

llOW. '

He made an expansive, dismissive gesture. 'Thought of
that. We'd transfer them to record at Mirror, Mirror.'

He paced around behind his desk, looking at his prot6g&
as though he was trying to see past her actual flesh and bones
to her character, her self-reliance.

'I got the impression that you'd made a conscious
decision to change your life when you got into this stuff,
Rowena,' he said. 'Well, I hope that u,as what you wanted.
B&ause I've .just come back from an extended board
meetiug and l think I can guarantee that your life is about
to chauge completely. Congratulations, Miss Gordon.
You're gonna run a uew label for us.'

He leant forward towards her, his craggy old face broken
by a mischievous grin.

'In New York.'


Rowena didn't get back to her flat antil p.m., she'd spent
so loug talking about this with.Josh, and Barbara, and even a
little with Alex and Mark, the bassist and drummer for
Atomic, who were in Barbara's management offices when
she drove over there. She felt nervous and excited at the
same time.

She flicked ou the dimmer switch, letting a soft light flood
the drawing room of her flat, illuminating the oyster-white
carpet, the elegant chintz sofa and Georgian writing desk.


8

As she slipped off her shoes and padded across to the
kitchen, wanting to make herselfa gin and tonic and a light
supper before she crashed out, the phone rang.

With a sigh of annoyance, Rowena picked it up.

'I thought you were gonna call me,' Michael Krebs said.
It was like an electric shock. Small prickles of desire
crawled all over her skin at the sound of his voice, teasing,
friendly, definitely turned on.

'I meant to. I've been so busy, I only got home a second

ago. '

'Rowena, you can always make time for your friends,'
Krebs said softly.

Rowena took a deep breath. 'I thought I was making too
much time for you,' she answered.

'I didn't mean to bite your head off,' he said. 'But I was
right, though, wasn't I?'

She felt her palm holding the receiver go moist with
sweat. °

'You have been thinking about it, haven't you? For a
while, now, I guess.'

'And you haven't,' she managed.

'We're not talking about me, we're talking about you,' he
said relentlessly.

'Christ! Michael, you're so arrogant,' Rowena replied. 'I
haven't got the faintest interest in you.'

There was a pause. She could almost feel his desire
reaching down the telephone line. It was late at night, there
was no one to see them, n6 one to stop them. She knew that
they were trembling right on the cusp, on the brink of

something from which there was.no going back.
'Rowena,' Michael said.

It was just one word. A light rebuke. A tease, as if to say Come on. But his knowing, mocking tone pushed her over
the edge.

To Rowena's astonishment, she heard herself moan with
lust. A soft, wild sound she couldn't control.

Michael heard it, and his erection pressed so hard agains
his zipper it hurt.

I49


It took twelve minutes for Rowena to get to the hotel, and
during that time Krebs paced the room, thinking about her,
imagining her in different positions, lightly touching him=
self from time to time. His erection remained rock-solid.
When he heard her timid knock, he had to restrain himself

from running across the room to wrench the door open.

'Hi, Rowena,' he said. 'Come in.'

She stepped into his suite, hearing the heavy door lock

itself behind her. She was squirming and wet between the
legs. Her heart was crashing and thudding so loudly against
her ribcage she was sure he must hear it. She stood
awkwardly in the middle of the room, not sure where to put

' herself.

Krebs regarded her impassively, his arms folded, for a

few moments, looking her over at his leisure. She blushed
deeper. She wanted him so desperately now she thought she
might collapse.

Michael calmly picked up the phone and spoke to the

operator, not taking his eyes offRowena. 'This is Mr .Krebs
in .o6,' he said. 'Hold all my calls, and have room service
send up some champagne and leave it outside the door. I'm
taking a shower.'

He replaced the receiver and beckoned to her. 'Come

here. '
She walked unsteadily towards him.

'Closer,' Michael ordered, and she moved nearer, until

her lips, wet and slightly parted, Were inches from his face.

Staring deep into Rowena's eyes, Krehs shoved his hand

up her dress and roughly yanked down her panties, pressing
his hand against the damp hair between her legs, and slid a

finger inside her, finding the hot, melting centre of her.

Rowena sobbed with pleasure, her legs shaking.

'What happened to "I'm not remotely attracted to you",

"I haven't got the faintest interest in you"?' he enquired,

caressing the urgent knot of heat in her belly.


I5O

She couldn't speak. She couldn't take her eyes off him.
The mesmeric quality Krebs had always had, the dominating
influence he'd had over her, in sex became a control so
complete it sent spasms of ecstasy convulsing through her.
Rowena couldn't believe what she was feeling. Not with
Peter, nor with the other men she'd dated since, had she ever
experienced anything like this. She was almost hypnotized.
The force of his will was like a ten-ton truck.

And she was amazed at the depth of her response. She'd
felt desire before. She'd felt pleasure. But never, never, had
she felt anything like the heat that was flooding her body

now.

'Say it,' he insisted. 'I want to hear you say it.'

'Michael, I - I think you're the most attractive man I've
ever seen in my life, and I always wanted you,' Rowena
said, half choking on the admission. She pressed herself
against him, feeling his thick erection, letting him understand
ho great her need was. She pressed her lips to his
throat, covering it with kisses. 'Please,' she said.

Michael took her head in his hands and twisted it about,
looking at her like he wanted to drink in her face. Then he
kissed her, fiercely, crushing her lips, running his hands
over her body, under her dress, unsnapping her bra and
playing with her erect nipples, stroking her in between the
legs until she was weak with pleasure.

'I have dreamed about this,' he said. 'You're so beautiful.
You're so different, you could drive a man mad.'

Then he pulled back, ;forcibly holding her away from
him. 'I fantasized about you that first time,' he said. 'I
looked at your mouth. I want to see your lips round my
cock. I want to see it disappear into your mouth.'

He pushed her down on her knees before him. 'And tie
your hair back,' he added. 'So I can see what you're doing.'

Rowena fumbled with her hair, barely able to get her
fingers to work properly. She was already approaching
orgasm, her feelings were so .strong. She had trouble
unbuttoning his fly because the denim was pushed out tigh
from his cock hard against it. Krebs did not help her.

I5I


When she finally freed him, Rowena drew breath.

He was big. No doubt about it. Long and thick. The
thought of that inside her was almost frightening. She
longed to taste him.

Rowena had always flatly refused to give head, no matter
how much her partners had begged her. The thought of it
disgusted her. But there was no question, now, of refusing
Michael Krebs anything he wanted. She was being completely
controlled and she loved it.

She wanted him inside her mouth. She wanted to please
him. To submit to him.

Delicately, gingerly at first, and then bolder, harder,
more confidently, she began to suck him.

Krebs felt the sweet relief of her tongue and pleasure

1surged through him, violent, intense sexual pleasure. He
knew it was her first time, and that somehow made it better.
He watched her, her eyes shut in rapture, her soft, plump
lips caressing him eagerly.

When he finally forced himself to pull out of her mouth,

he dropped down beside her without a word, spread her
legs and entered her immediately, holding her head steady
in'his hands so he could watch her come.

Rowena felt the orgasm seconds before it started, the
waves of sex running through her gathering and deepening,
rushing towards her groin from her fingertips, her toes, her
neck. The ecstasy was so intense she felt dizzy, and all she
could see was Michael's face, and those brilliant dark eyes
watching her, and she was coming, a huge, crashing climax
ripping through her, and she thrashed about in Michael's
arms, and she felt him erupt insid her with a groan of bliss,
and she was still coming, and then finally it subsided, and
she was staring into his eyes again, and she knew, with
absolute, helpless certainty, that she had just found the one
great passion of her life.

hapter Fourteen


From 7 p.m. onwards, fleets of limos streamed down the
Avenue of the Americas, towards the Victrix, the smartest
hotel in Manhattan.

It was the party of the year.

It was the party of the decade.

Invitations had been harder to come by than tickets to the
best Clinton Inaugural Ball, more sought-after than A-list
places at the late Swifty Lazar's annual post-Oscars bash. An
invitation'to this party marked you out as the cream of the
New York cr.op; fail to get one, and you failed to make the
grade. Social death. Effective immediately.

Because there was something different about this party,
quite aside from the eleven million dollars it had reputedly
cost. This was no ordinary hymn to American excess, with
a safe guest list drawn up from the usual social old guard: Mr
and Mrs Billionaire Financier, Mr and Mrs Millionaire
Publisher, and their summer neighbours from the Hamp
t.ons. Elizabeth Martin couldn't care less about those sort of
people. She wasn't interested in the richest. She was only
interested in the best.

Elizabeth was twenty-eight ye.ars old and married to the
wealthiest man in the Western world, which meant that
money no longer concerned her. Achievement was all she
gave a damn about, and he threw parties for the people at
the top of each individual, tree, their bank balance being
incidental. Your ancestors came over on the Mayflower? So
what? If you couldn't compete on a worldwide scale,
Elizabeth didn't have time for you.

Her parties were strictly for the great. The. good could

Ctake care 0fthemselves.

Young, cool, competitive Manhattan was hosting the
Meritocrats' Ball.

Topaz Rossi and Rowena Gordon had both been invited.


Oberman arrived at Rowena's new apartment on West 67th
street at 8 p.m. There had never been any question that he
wouldn't fly over for this one, and in any case Rowena
needed an escort, since she didn't know any of the American
players yet, and invites were for on person only; no wives,
no husbands, no lovers.

'Just come in, Josh, it's open,' called Rowena from the
bathroom. He took a look round, pleased with himself;
with no time to hunt for a place, Gordon had taken the first
thing he recommended, and he obviously hadn't failed her.

'
	The co-op had a faqade of elegant white stone, with Gothic
carvings of gargoyles entwined around the porch, which led
into a lobby of polished black granite with efficient, discreet
z4-hour security. Rowena had four huge, high-ceilinged
rooms with breathtaking views over Central Park, and
she'd decorated them with a few small English watercolours
and exquisite Georgian furniture. He nodded to himself,
satisfied. No disgrace for Musica's youngest-ever MD to
live somewhere like this.

'Holy shit,' he said as Rowena walked into the drawing
room.

She was wearing a white chiffon gown by Ungaro,
high-waisted in the Regency style and bias-cut in the skirt,
so that it flowed around her, following every slight swing of
her hips. The chiffon was studded with tiny fabric roses,
complementing her classic peaches-and-cream complexion.
Her blonde hair was swept up into a regal pile, secured by
tiny ebony combs. Rubies glittered at her ears, throat and
wrists, the dangling earrings in particular giving a sexy
emphasis to the movement of her head and setting off her
sparkling green eyes. Delicate pink satin heels peeped out
from under her hem.

'Do you like it?' asked Rowena anxiously.


I54

'You look unbelievable, toots,' said Oberman, with
fatherly pride. 'Have a drink. You'll need it.'

'If you say so.' She smiled at him. What a sweetheart he
was. She hoped she'd get the same reaction from the two
people she was really dressing for: Michael Krebs and Topaz
Rossi.


Topaz received her gold-embossed invitation at the office,
just as she was winding up a particularly tough advertising
deal for Girlfriend. She was one of only four people invited
from American Magazines.


Mrs Alexander Martin requests the pleasure of Miss Rossi' s
company on Wednesday, 28June,for a party in four acts.
The Victrix Hotel, 8.3o p.m.

Dress as you please.


She sperrt a fortnight agonizing over what to wear, and
then decided that less was more and went for a Chanel
sheath in light green silk with matching shoes. She wore her
hair loose, and no make-up orjewellery of any kind. The
dress let her figure speak for itself, hugging her curves like a
second skin, and the sea-green colour lit up the deep cobalt
of her eyes. It was a look to stop traffic.

Nathan Rosen, Marissa Matthews and Joe Goldstein
were coming too, and since they were all ridiculously busy

people, they met up in the limo.
Nathan was wearing a tUX.
Joe was wearing a tux.

Marissa was wearing a golden creation in six layers of
organza, laced with silver thread a;ad covered head to foot in
solid gold sequins. She had added a three-row pearl choker
and sapphire and diamond bracelets.

'What's the matter, honey? Couldn't you at least have hired something to go in?' she asked as Topaz settled into the
leather seat, furious because neither Nathan or Joe would
stop stripping her with their eyes.

'I didn't realize it was a fancy-dress party, darling!' Topaz

countered. 'How original of you to come as a Christmas
tree!'

Nathan hastily turned a snort of laughter into a cough,
and the limo eased smoothly away.


Rowena clutched on to her boss's arm, trying to catch her
breath.

What was normally the ballroom of the Victrix Hotel,
occupying the entire twenty-fourth floor, had been turned
into a landscaped garden, with mosy turf laid down wall to
wall and ancient-looking stone paving. To the right and left
were orchards of orange trees in full blossom, delicately
scenting the air. Footmen in full court livery paraded
around with mahogany trays of caviar and truffles, and
maids appeared and disappeared silently, ensuring that no
glass was ever less than half full of vintage champagne. Tiny
bells had been. garlanded into the branches of the trees,
filling the room with soft, delicious chimes. White peacocks
wandered among the crowd.

And what a crowd! Rowena had passed Madonna on her
way in, and then found that she and Josh were sharing an
elevator with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Si Newhouse,
mogul head ofCond Nast magazines. Oberman had had to
edge past Henry Kissinger, deep in conversation with
Henry Kravis, just to get Rowena some champagne.

'Come on, kid,' he said, seventy-two and unshakeable. I'll introduce you to a few people.'

For the next ten minutes Rowena Gordon, who lived and
died for the record business, was catapulted straight to
heaven.

'Ahmet Ertegun, Rowena Gordon.'

'Rowena, you haven't met Sylvia Rhone, have you?'

'Tommy Mottola. Clive Davis. Michelle Anthony. Joe
Smith. Alain Levy.'

Rowena shook hands, suppressing the urge to curtsy.

'This is Rick Rubin,' said Josh, steering a huge man who
looked like a bear towards her.

Dear God, thought Rowena, as she shook hands.with the


56

ultimate Heavy Metal prince, you can almost smell the
testosterone. The guy's masculinity must walk into a room
three paces in front of him.

'I like the rushes of that Atomic Mass record Krebs is
working on,' growled Rubin. 'Word of mouth on that band
is huge.'

'Yeah, they're great,' agreed Rowena, glowing with
pride. 'I thought you did an awesome job on "Licensed to
II1".'

'Thanks,' said Rubin.

'Stop flirting with everybody, Rowena,' said Josh loudly,
making her blush even worse.

'Get out of my face, Oberman,' said Rubin amiably.
'Oh my God, Batman and Robin,' said Oberman, grabbing a pair of guys who were walking their way.
'Hello, gentlemen, come say hi to Musica's new woman in
New York. Rowena, say hello to Q-Prime, and then go
sign me an'act they can handle.'

Rowena was afraid she might drop her glass. If it was
good and it used a guitar, Q-Prime represented it. Sweet
Jesus! The two most legendary managers in the world...

'Hi, nice to meet you,' said Cliff Burnstein and Peter
Mensch.

'How are you finding New York?'.asked Burnstein, who
basically didn't give a shit about anything and had turned up
in a Metallica shirt and jeans.

'Er, it's very big,' muttered Rowena, her powers of
conversation deserting her. They kindly agreed that it was
indeed very big, and then launched into an animated
discussion of the prospects for the Mets that season,
finishing offeach other's sentences.

'Do md a favour,' Oberman murmured to her after they'd
moved away. 'Never, ever luck with those guys.'

'I wasn't planning to, Josh.'


At the other end of the garden Topaz had also taken up
residence on cloud nine, because Nathan had finally introduced
her to Tina Brown, and the editor of Glamour had


157

omplimented her on Girlfriend.

'Excuse me, Marcelle,' simpered Marissa, dragging a
highly reluctant Topaz away from the exquisitely dressed
editor of British Cosmopolitan. 'Topaz, didn't you know

Rowena Gordon when you were at school?'

'What about it?' snapped Topaz.

'Because she's right over there,' Marissa purred.

At that moment, Rowena happened to glance to her left,

and froze, paralysed to the spot.

They had not laid eyes on each other for three years.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' announced a waiter. 'Dinner is
served.'


Elizabeth Martin had outdone herself this time, everybody
agreed. The menus announced 'Act II: A fairytale meal',
' and she had certainly delivered.

The dining hall looked like a missing chapter of Charlie
and the Chocolate Factory. It seemed as if Alexander Martin
must have bought the entirety of F. A. O. Schwarz to
decorate it. The centrepiece of the room was a table for zoo
people crafted out of hard-baked, solid gingerbread.
Miniature trains ran round the table, laden with quails' eggs
and celery salt in one carriage, Godiva chocolates in the
next, and still more caviar in the third. Humanoid robots
stumbled about, bearing various trays of drinks:
champagne cocktails, fine wines, fresh pressed raspberry
juice, even ready-mixed Long Island Ice Teas and Cokes in
glass bottles. With a fine disregard for the seasons, various
trophies of childhood festivals stood around; pumpkins
complete with flickering candles and jagged smiles, fireworks
for the Fourth of July, Easter eggs and chocolate
bunnies, and Christmas trees everywhere, strung with
tinsel and baubles and laden with gifts to which guests were
expected to help themselves: Rolex watches, silver
cuf'flinks, Hermes scarves, bottles of Joy and Chanel No. 5
You just didn't know where to look first.

'Fucking fantastic!' laughed Joe Goldstein, seated on one
side of Topaz.

cwonder, smile and relax. Nobody had ever seen anything
like it. You almost saw the pressures of the city lifting and
the years evaporating. Normality was suspended.

As waiters dressed in penguin suits served them with
starters of smoked salmon mousse or honey-glazed roast
vegetables, guests started unwrapping the presents laid
beside each individual place setting, parcels of various
different shapes and sizes. A chorus of gasps arose amongst
the delighted hubbub. Someone had spent a long time on
the known preferences of each guest; Elizabeth had apparently
cast herself as everyone's fairy godmother. Beside
each plate was an object of desire longed for by the recipient,
but never acquired.

'Oh my God,' said Topaz, delicately lifting the gauze offa
letter to an academic written, and signed, by J. R. R.
Tolkien. °

'I don't believe it,' said Josh Oberman, pulling out a small
Faberg6 egg. 'It can't be what I think it is.'

'Look at this,' said Rowena in astonishment, holding up a
first-pressing copy of the Def Leppard EP and a bootleg
tape of the MCs.

'Look, Joe,' said Nathan Rosen, showing him his bat- .
tered football with the autographs of the entire Giants team.


Silence descended on the room as people started to enjoy the
food.

Topaz couldn't eat anything. She toyed with her meal,
trying not to stare at Rowena. The force of her loathing
gripped her inside her stomach, tistirg her guts. God, she
was just the same: English, cold, haughty. So stunningly
beautiful, so perfectly tasteful. Rowena could wear as many
rubies as she liked and carry it off, whereas Marissa just
seemed vulgar. Look at her. She didn't give a damn about
anybody or anything.

I worshipped you, you hateful bitch, Topaz thought,
choked. I shared everything with you. And it obviously;


I59

meant nothing to you.

She felt weak, she thought she might cry. The bitter pain
of Rowena's treachery came flooding back, and the terrible
hurt of betrayal by the only friend to whom she'd ever fully
revealed herself; the hurt of Rowena, whom she'd totally
trusted, teaching her that sisterhood was a sham, and that
the only person in this life that Topaz Rossi would ever be
able to believe in was herself.

Rowena sliced up her duckling breast, precisely and
automatically. She was determined not to show how badly
she felt, knowing Topaz Rossi's cruel blue eyes were boring
into the back of her neck.

She had betrayed a friend. Cheated on her. Stolen her
lover. And used her class and breeding to excuse herself- as
her father had done to justify his own rejection of her. It was
a system she had previously denounced as an archaic,
imperialist British hangover, best forgotten.

But you used it against an Italian Yank when it suited you, accused a nagging little voice in her head.

Rowena shook her head, as though she could dispel the
past. She hadn't given Topaz a second thought! Why should
she be looking at her like this now? Water under the bridge,
right? Christ, they were only kids at college.

Trust Topaz Rossi to get worked up about it.

Anger mingled with her guilt. That terrible Cherwell headline flashed in front of her.

Deliberately, Rowena pushed back her chair, and stood
up, smoothing down her dress. The room was seriously
overstocked with men, and at least thirty pairs of eyes
followed the flow of the material over her breasts.

There was a tension in the air. The main course wasn't
even finished. What was she doing?

'Sit down,' hissed Josh Oberman.

Rowena, apparently, could not hear her boss. She walked
carefully over to where Topaz was sitting, and the other
woman shot out of her chair to meet her.

Two places down, Marissa Matthews was ecstatic.
Something was very wrong indeed, and very .right for


16o

Friday's column. She strained to listen.

'It must be hell for you, Rowena,' said Topaz, in bitter,
measured tones, 'having to break bread with all these
ghastly colonials.'

'I see that you're doing well in American Magazines,
Topaz,' said Rowena evenly, 'although I'm not surprised,
since journalism is a profession where the scum usually rises
to the top. Do you find a better class of interviewee to sleep
with these days?'

'No wonder you're succeeding in the record business,
Rowena,' answered Topaz, barely restraining her fury. 'So
few women to get in your way, and you can contribute to
the feminist agenda by promoting male heavy-metal bands.
But then this sister was only ever doing it for herself, wasn't

she?'

They stared at each other, constrained by the presence of
the glittering crowd.

'This is xny patch,' hissed Topaz.

'This was your patch,' spat Rowena.

There was a moment's hung silence. Then, slowly, both
girls turned aside and returned to their seats.


Michael Krebs moved casually towards Rowena across the
dance floor. He didn't enjoy dancing, but he did enjoy
watching his beautiful woman whirl gracefully from the
arms of one mogul to the next. Her intelligence and her
poise were captivating the whole of New York. All of these
men thought she was the ice queen. He knew better.

'Do you mind if I cut in?' he said to the deeply famous
movie director, who was pissed-off because he wanted to
get Rowena to consult on his project for the life and times of
Led Zeppelin.

Rowena, who'd been searching for him all night, tried to
stop herself melting into his arms with relief. Michael hated
emotion. He demanded complete detachment. Maybe it
took his mind offthe wedding ring glinting on his left hand,
she thought with renewed agony.

Krebs took her easily into the sedate rhythm of the waltz,


161

one hand on the curve of her waist. He felt her body respond
to his touch as if he'd given her an electric shock, and
immediately his cock started to swell for her. The intensity
of her lust was almost frightening. He knew he could get her
wet just by looking into her eyes. It sent a flood of powerful
joy through him, to do this to her. Her own sexuality had
her in chains.

'You look lovely,' he told her quietly.

'Thank you, Michael,' said Rowena, determined to keep
her cool. 'It's quite a party.'

'Yeah,' said Krebs, adding matter-of-factly, 'you'll meet
me in the lobby downstairs in ten minutes. Don't excuse
yourself to Joshua, just come downstairs.' Rowena felt the

familiar convulsions of longing.

'I can't,' she murmured.

'You can and you will,' said Michael Krebs, and she
looked at his determined brown eyes, and his wiry salt-and
pepper hair, and his beautiful, callous face, and knew she
would do whatever he wanted.

'But the party - ' she protested weakly.

'I know what happens now,' said Michael in her ear, 'so
you won't have to stay to see. For Act Three, everyone goes
downstairs to the fourteenth floor, which they've turned
into a giant ice rink. Then for Act Four, everyone goes'up to
the roof garden and gets into a fleet of helicopters which
ferry them to Alex Martin's private airstrip, and then two
Gulfstream 4 jets take everybody out and back for six
hours' dancing in the Florida Keys.'

'You're kidding,' breathed Rowena.

Krebs made an impatient mo'#ement with his.hand. 'No,
I'm not kidding. But I want to fuck you, so you're not
going.'

He took another look at her in that cream-and-roses
dress, the rubies sparkling round her long neck as she
moved. She reverted to type, they all did, these aristocratic
little rich girls playing around in business. She was a class
piece, a European lady, the kind that he dreamt about in
college but would have stammered in front of if he'd


I62

actually had to speak to her. Now he was everything she
hoped to be; now, in this new universe where class counted
for nothing, he was a lord and she was still a peasant.

Michael Krebs, twice Rowena Gordon's age, her mentor
in business, her tutor in sex.

He splayed his fingers over her ribcage, feeling her slight
involuntary squirm. He would have her like this, exactly
like this. He wouldn't let her change a thing. He wanted to
see this English lady in her fine clothes down on her knees
with her mouth round his cock, with her warm soft lips and
eager tongue working him so he could come in her mouth.
That would be first. Then a little later, before he was even
hard again, he'd make her take his limp prick in between her
lips and hands and work him back up to erection, so he
could put her on her hands and knees on a hotel bed, shove
up that elegant chiffon and screw her from behind, just fuck
all that British reserve right out of her. She'd have to please
him like ttlat. She'd have to earn her sex.


Topaz fastened her seatbelt as the Gulfstream soared into the
skies above New Jersey. She'd got a second burst of energy
now, even without the aid of the poppers and speed pills
which most of the guests were on. Stewardesses in the navy
uniform of Martin Oil moved up and down the spacious
aisles of the private jet, presenting passengers with orchids,
cigars and miniatures of cognac.

Marissa, orgasmic at the confrontation she was announcing
to the world, had ilready phoned in her copy to
'Friday's People'.

Topaz knew it and she welcome.d it. There would only be
one winner in this war. New York was her turf, born and
bred, and the stuck-up bitch would never survive. Everybody
knew she hadn't even lasted this party, whereas, she,
Topaz, had tied up two joint ventures and optioned a
bestseller.

She tapped Joe Goldstein on the shoulder. He was an
arrogant, sexist bastard, but she had a use for him.
'Yeah, Rossi,' he said, engrossed in his Wall Street Journal:


163

'Joe,' she asked, 'what do you hear about a rock band
called Atomic Mass?'


Rowena gripped on to the edge of the mixing desk with one
hand, her feet splayed against a Marshall stack, her other
hand in her mouth, muffling herself.

Michael stood in between her legs, rocking his cock into
her with perfect control, in and out, making her look at it as
he fucked her. He felt her pussy rippling round him, young
and tight and hot with pleasure. She was trembling on the
brink of orgasm, mutely imploring him to push her over it.

'Absolutely,' he said into the phone. 'No, the second
Atomic album, Josh, I'll make the time.. Yeah, well, what
can I tell you. Two per cent of nothing is nothing! Sure! You
know I love doing business with you, Oberman, and with

'
	Rowena Gordon as well. She's a very good friend of mine.
Yes, very talented.'

He could feel the insistent clutching of her belly, unable to
resist him much longer.

'Well, I'll catch you later,' he said casually, and put the
phone down.
, He moved deeper into her. 'You like that, don't you?' he
asked her conversationally. 'You like having me fuck you
while I'm doing business.'

Rowena had her head back, and her eyes were wild. She
couldn't speak. She made little choking noises, which he
loved, as she gasped in ecstasy.

'God these rivers of passion,' he said. 'You're a slave to it,
aren't you? Is this everything you dreamed it would be? Is it
as good as you remember it?'

'Michael! Michael!' Rowena sobbed, abandoned utterly
to pure desire. Krebs grinned to himself, as the pleasure in
his own loins began to build. She was in New York for
good. Now she belonged to him.

I64


Chapter Fifteen


Topaz stood in front of her new bedroom window, looking
across the Village.

The blue expanse above the warm red brick of the elegant
townhouses shimmered, holding out the promise of
another scorching day. She stared at the view below her,
drawing strength from it. After all, she was a New Yorker

now.

Like the city itself could help her stay on top of things.
She turned away from the window and padded towards
her dressing room, across the lush blue carpeting of the
bedroom, noting with satisfaction the Art Deco table, the
Lalique lamps, the huge Moston bed with its silk sheets still
rumpled from the way Nathan and she had christened it last
night.

Nathan Rosen. Her lover. Her partner.

He'd been superb last night, probing, stroking, kissing
her everywhere. Almost as good as the first few weeks
they'd been lovers. And she was glad of that. She couldn't
understand why Nathan wanted to take it slow. 'Let's pace
ourselves.' 'Later.' 'Sweetheart, I'm beat right now.' He'd
been like that for weeks.

Not that they hadn't made love. Sometimes:

Topaz adjusted the belt of her Yves St-Laurent silk gown,
feeling it flow round her magnificent body like water. Her
full breasts still thrust upwards despite their weight, tilting
towards the sky with the confidence of youth.

She caught sight of her reflection in their full-length wall
mirror, and pirouetted, pleased with that at least. No way.
she needed an uplift, Topaz thought. Although the second


65

she did she was gonna get one. Why should she have
sagging breasts, when she had plenty of money to ensure
otherwise? Of course, Rowena Gordon would probably
think plastic surgery was low-rent. Well, she could go fuck
herself. This was America. Where pasty complexions and
sexual repressions weren't something to be proud of.

Topaz shook her head, as if to dispel thoughts of Rowena.
Time enough for that when she got into the office. Christ,
she'd kept that anger bottled up for years. It could wait a few
more hours.

Her Italian blood was raging for revenge. She still
couldn't believe Rowena Gordon had had the chutzpah to
actually get up in the middle of dinner and confront her. Of
course she'd known Rowena would be there Just like she
knew she'd been posted to New York, and that her act
Atomic Mass were being talked about all over knowing
circles in the city.

British live sensation.

Michael Krebs producing. No fee. Just a piece of the
action.

Five young boys with looks MTV would eat alive.


	Debut single out this week.

If the rumours were true, Atomic Mass were about to
burst on an unsuspecting world as the biggest new band
since Nirvana.

Topaz made it her business to know these things.
Somebody else might have sneered at the hype, dismissed it
as gossip flavour-of-the-month stuff. But she remembered
Rowena's passion for music - yeah, she remembered everything about Rowena. In th6se days, in the cloisters of
Oxford, it had been the one rebellious trait in her personality.
She'd had the elegant clothes, the social grace, the
e,cer-present volume of medieval poetry or some other
scrupulously academic book tucked under her arm.
Rowena Gordon wouldn't have dreamt of relaxing with a
Jackie Collins or a John Grisham. But her rock 'n' roll
Rowena loved too much to hide, even for the sake of her
precious image.


166

And Topaz wasn't about to underestimate her opponent.
That was a mistake for amateurs. That was what Rowena
Gordon did to Topaz Rossi, and was she ever going to pay
for it.

I said I wasn't going to think about her now! Topaz
lectured herself, and strolled into the kitchen. Light was
streaming in from the windows and skylights, flooding the
polished wood floor, the expensive oak table and the
European Aga cooker, which Topaz had insisted on. In fact
she'd insisted on the whole thing. Moving in together.
Nathan selling his co-op. Her selling her chic single-girl's
apartment. If they were going to be partners, she'd persuaded
Nate, they ought to be partners. In love. Money.
Everything.

And who could deny that it was a good move? she asked
herself, setting up the coffee machine so Nate could get his
fix when he came back from his early morning jog. Pooling
their resources, they'd been able to buy a house, an actual
house, in the middle of Manhattan! West Ioth Street, prime
Village property and very suitable for a media couple. And
their place even had a garden. OK, so it was a tiny scrap of a

garden, but in New York that was saying something.
Specifically, that was saying, we are very rich.

So? Topaz thought. They were rich. Who could deny it?
Nathan was a director for American Magazines, and she
was editor of Girlfriend and about to become editor of Economic Monthly.

Whatever Joe Goldstein thought.


Joe thrust again, twisting his hips a little, pushing himself
deep into the pulsing heart of her, "feeling for the hot, wet
core that would send her crashing over the edge. The
excitement in his cock seemed to feed through into his
whole body, making his bloodstream sing as though it were
liquid fire. He gently caressed her fine, pointed breasts,
taking the swollen nipples into his mouth and circling each
of them with his tongue, then sucking them, while she
moaned and gasped with delight, making those small


67

guttural sounds in the back of her throat that turned him on
even more. They rolled over and she was on top, her dyed
blonde hair tumbling round her face, eyes still closed in
bliss. He hadn't missed a beat.

Joe pushed up her breasts in his hands, more urgently
now, feeling the first tremors of orgasm start to build. The
ecstatic expression on Lisa's face had triggered it; he took
pleasure in the woman's pleasure, always making sure they
came several times, always leaving them hungry for more.

On automatic pilot he gathered himself for the final
seconds and plunged deep, deep inside her, hitting the g
spot, the little tender melting spot on the wall of the vagina,
the place some sexologists and most women swore didn't
exist. But not the ones who'd slept with Joe Goldstein.

Well, it had taken men a while to discover the clitoris, Joe
reckoned. They'd get round to the g-spot eventually.

Of course, it helped to be a connoisseur of women.

Of course, it helped to have a twelve-inch cock.

]0e!' Lisa screamed, her entire, perfectly flat belly visibly
rippling with the force of her convulsions. 'Joe!Joe! Oh, my
God!'
' 'Lisa,' he breathed, feeling his orgasm tear through him

and explode inside her.

They were immobile for a few seconds, gasping for
breath, recovering.

'Jesus Christ, you are the best,' she said, rolling off him
and pushing the damp hair out of her eyes.

'You're something special yourself,' replied Joe automatically.
'You always were.'

She got up and sauntered towards the shower, displaying
a firm, full body, with nice breasts and legs, maybe a little
chunky around the hips, and sassy, uneven bl6nde hair with
the roots showing. Joe and Lisa had screwed on and offfor
years. She was married in name only to a Wall Street
financier who could rarely get it up, and she was as careful in
choosing her lovers as Joe was in choosing his: no involvement,
no commitment, and plenty to offer in the sack. Lisa
Foster was a sensualist, but she was also a mater.ialist. She


i68

didn't want to take any risks. And neither did Joe.

'Baby, you could fuck for World Champion,' was her
parting comment to him as she left, wrapped in a garish
pink Ungaro suit.

Joe smiled and kissed her hand. He liked Lisa. Girls like
her were worth missing sleep for. They were easy to please
and fun to screw, and they didn't insist on beating you up
with a big feminist stick. She didn't want to debate the
difference between men and women for five hours, she just
wanted to enjoy it. He supposed Topaz Rossi would despise
a girl like Lisa. Living off her husband's money, or
whatever it was she'd say.

Goldstein lit a cigarette, annoyed. Even thinking about
that woman ruined his good mood. He wandered into the
kitchen, spread a couple of bagels thickly with cream cheese
and put on a fresh pot of coffee, switching on his IBM. The
notes for his presentation to the board flashed up on the
screen, the s0eech amusing, well paced and lucid.

That made him feel better. The speech was a killer. It
should nail Economic Monthly, if it hadn't been nailed before.
The title had his name on it anyway - a serious new
monthly: glossy, upmarket, aimed at men. He ran three
magazines just like it for American Magazines already, and
he ran them very successfully. And it wasn't just the
circulation of his own titles that he had to offer the group.
Since the time he'd been at Wharton and discovered by Nate
Rosen, he'd been using his cum laude MBA to American's
advantage, submitting cos-cutting proposals, helping to
review supplier contracts, helping out on acquisition titles.

Goldstein was more than a hot.shot editor. He was a
businessman. And he saw Economic Montlly as a direct leap
to the board.

Topaz Rossi! What made her a goddamn candidate? OK,
so after a couple of weeks at American's New York offices
he realized he'd been wrong about her, at least at first. She
was a very talented journalist, dynamite columnist, had
been a good features editor at US Woman and had done
wonders for the circulation of Girlfriend. Fair enough, she


169

had more going for her than her physical charms. But still,
the girl was in charge of only one magazine. Aimed at
teenage girls. And she had no corporate or business
experience at all - well, a little MBA work at night school,
big deal. God, she'd never been within a mile of running a
high-profile men's magazine.

So why am I letting her get to me? thought Joe angrily.
I'm gonna cream her over Economic Monthly. And that's all.
End of story.

But it wasn't.

Topaz Rossi was under Joe Goldstein's skin, and he didn't
like it. She annoyed him and she bothered him and she made
him mad. Usually, when he met a woman he couldn't
stand, he put her out of his mind. He had better things to do.
Annoyance was a futile, pointless emotion, and Joe Gold
stein didn't indulge in time-wasting.

But Rosi refused to get out of his mind.

Maybe it was the harsh feminism, but he met a lot of
feminists. Maybe it was her personality. That brash, bold,
in-your-face way Topaz had about her. She seemed to be
everywhere he went, shouting encouragement to the Girl'friend staffers, carrying great stacks of layouts past his office
to her own, greeting everybody in the goddamn building
like they were her bosom buddies. And it seemed most of
them were, which made it worse. In meetings, she was
polite and courteous to him, but that was as far as it went.
She was curt. Blunt. Almost dismissive of him. In the LA
bureau where Goldstein had been operating, people compromised
from time to time to let something get done. Not
Ms Rossi, though. 'Compromise' was not in her dictionary.
That girl would argue for two hours rather than
concede anything.

She was fucking relentless.

Maybe it was her dress sense, Joe thought, moving back
into the kitchen to finish off his bagel. He glanced at his
Rolex. Eight forty. He'd have to get a move on; lucky the
Brooks Brothers suit was already pressed and ready to go,
the white shirt hanging on the back of his closet..Yeah, her

I7o


dress sense. Totally inappropriate for the working environment,
he thought severely. Always showing offher figure.
Bright colours. Designer names. Rich fabrics. By rights,
she should come over as vulgar, but her innate self
confidence and sense of style enabled her to carry it off. He'd
never met another redhead who could wear a shocking-pink
suit by Vivienne Westwood and get away with it. It was just
so - so - off-putting, this bold, brassy, ballsy Italian girl
storming round the place like an ongoing nuclear explosion.

Joe dressed quickly, without fuss or undue worries about
his reflection. He never thought about that stuff.

Of course, he'd fantasized about Topaz. Or tried to. Hell,
she was awesomely beautiful and she had the best body he'd
seen outside the covers of Playboy.

But something was wrong with that picture. Every time
he tried to imagine her naked on a rug, he found himself
remembering something annoying about her, like the last
time she'd shaken his hand at an editors' meeting with all the
warmth of your average iceberg.

He ran offa new copy of his speech notes and put them in
his custom-made briefcase. No time to think about that
now. There was only one day to go before the board got to
pick the first editor of Economic Monthly.

Joe Goldstein had worked hard on the construction of his
speech for this presentation, harder than he'd worked on
anything for some time. Possibly he was being
underconfident. After all, he was meant to be a dead cert for
this job.

But he wanted to polish this speech till it gleamed.
There was no way he was gonna lose out to Topaz Rossi.


'I wanted to break it to you myself,' Josh Oberman said,
spearing a stuffed mushroom with vigour.

He was meeting Rowena Gordon for breakfast at the
Pierre. When back in New York on business, Oberman
always stayed at the Pierre and he always had the same suite.
He knew what he liked. Elegant dcor, impeccable service
and a nice view of Central Park. The Royalton or the

Paramount were the music-industry hotels of choice right
now, with their futuristically equipped rooms and ultra-hip
atmosphere, but Joshua Oberman sneered at that. Hotels
were somewhere you slept when you were doing business.
Period. He couldn't give a damn about how good-looking
the bellboys were.

'Break what to me, boss?' Rowena asked, picking at her
fruit salad. The New York body fascism was already
starting to get to her, but she didn't mind. How could she?
Her slim, naturally blonde figure seemed to be the American
ideal. And she wanted to be perfect for Michael,
absolutely perfect. Her desire for him was fast becoming
obsession.

'The reaction Wamers had to the first Atomic Mass
single,'Josh said gravely.

Rowena stiffened, little prickles of fear rising on the nape
of her neck. Warners were going to distribute the first
Atomic record in the States, just like they packaged,
shipped and sold all the Musica records out here. Rowena's
little talent-scout outpost of a label notwithstanding, the
company had no real presence in America. So they did a deal
'with a major, like every other semi-independent, and took a
royalty payment on each of their CDs sold out here.

So if Warners hated the single, forget it. Her band were
sunk.

'What reaction?' she demanded. '"Karla" is brilliant! It's brilliant! How could they not love it?'

Josh let her hang for a second, savouring the moment. He
admired her outfit again, a shaped black suit by Anna Sui,
legs tapering down in sheerest 'black nylon to stack-heeled
mules from Chanel. Her long hair, shaped with a soft new
fringe at the front and precision cut at the back, swung
behind her like a shining golden curtain.

'Relax,' he said. 'They did love it. More than that, even.'
Rowena leant back in her chair, feeling relief flood
through her. She smiled at her boss. Capricious old bastard!
She shouldn't have risen to it like that, but any teasing about
Atomic Mass hit straight home. The first single was about


I72

to be released, the record was nearly done, and everyone
connected with the band was wound up as tight as a
bedspring.

The boys themselves, naturally, were completely at their
ease, just glad to be wrapping up Heat Street and going back
on the road. And they were still getting to know New
York. The bars. The clubs. And the women. Especially the
women. Christ, they weren't even known here yet, and
they were getting snowed under with girls. She'd never
seen anything like it. No, the band weren't uptight, the
band were in seventh bloody heaven.

'I wish I could draw you a picture of Bob Morgado's face
when he heard it,' Oberman said, smiling broadly at the
memory. 'Oh, they thought Christmas came early this
year. If the rest of the album matches up to "Karla", we're
looking at the top of the priority list.'

He attacked his cheese omelette, cackling. 'Know how I
really know they loved it?' he asked. 'They wanted to renew
the Atomic contract. Separate from the general Musica deal.
I guess they must realize we plan to get our own distribution
going sooner rather than later, and they still want a piece of
Atomic Mass.'

'What did you tell them?' Rowena demanded.

'I said we'd think about it. Depending on how good a job
they do with Heat Street,' Oberman grinned, thoroughly
pleased with himself. 'And how are you settling in, kid?'

'Oh, fine,' said Rowena vaguely. She wasn't about to
belabour her boss with her business problems. The office.
The overwork. The commercial fucking Siberia she found
herself in as a. lone gun.

Fix it first, talk about it later.

'Good. Haven't seen you since you ducked out of
Elizabeth Martin's party- without saying goodbye,' Ober
man added severely. 'No, don't give me whatever excuse
you're desperately trying to cook up. You don't want to jet
to Florida, it's your problem. Who was that woman you
were catting with at the dinner, Rowena? The stunning
redhead? Is it something I should be concerned about?'

I73


'She's nobody. A magazine executive I didn't get on too
well with at Oxford, that's all,' answered Rowena, her tone
going cold. She resented Topaz shoving herself into a
conversation she was having with Joshua Oberman. Josh
was her mentor. Josh was sacred.

Oberman lifted his fork, warning her. 'Babe,' he said,
'nobody at that party was nobody.'


The sixtieth floor of the American Magazines tower on
Seventh Avenue was pleasantly co01, despite the blazing sun
that streamed into it through the glass walls in every
director's office. Lower floors in the building were at their
normal, mind-melting level, but not this one. The board
had the benefit of the latest Japanese air-conditioning
systems, silent and effective, so that they could run
America's second-largest magazine empire with total concentration,
the freezing winters and baking summers of
New York being totally immaterial.

Indeed, to the unwary visitor used only to the rest of the
building - editors barking orders, reporters yelling into
phones, computers and printers clattering, photocopiers
Whirring and the rest - the sixtieth floor could seem like another planet. Chaos and bleeping phones and mundane
things like deadlines seemed miles away from the calm,
almost churchlike tranquillity of the executive floor.

Nathan Rosen, the company's young director, East
Coast - a mere forty-one years old - sometimes missed the
constant hustle of actual magazine offices. But not often.
He'd been working up to his current position all his life. He
was ready for the big picture work now- acquisitions, sales,
disposals. It was busy up here. It was just that y.ou'd never
know it.

At least, Topaz Rossi didn't seem to know it.

'| can't talk,' Nathan protested. 'Not today.' He gave a
small shrug, the tightness of his movement betraying his
annoyance. 'You and Joe are presenting tomorrow, Topaz,
for Christ's sake.'

'Why does that matter? I know you'll be o.bjective,'


I74

Topaz said, moving towards him.

She knew she shouldn't be here. But she couldn't help it.
Some innate desire to tease her lover had proved too strong
to resist. She loved seeing his face like that, taut with anger
and impatience, as though he despaired of her. Topaz knew
it reminded him of the difference in their ages, and she
played on that mercilessly.. Making him do things he'd
sworn not to do. Forcing him to consider all the taboos he
was breaking with her. Forcing him to remember why he
was breaking them.

Anything to provoke.

Anything to arouse.

Anything to help his passion, his vitality, match up to
hers.

Nathan leant across his desk and took her head in his hands, gazing at the soft, tanned skin, the sparkling blue
eyes, the wild red hair. She'd picked out a short Mark Eisen
suit in brig yellow, set with pretty enamel buttons shaped
like large daisies. She was wearing some fresh, summery
perfume- Chanel No. 9, he thought. She was sensational.

Rosen pressed his lips down on hers, her riot of colour
muted by the sober navy of his Savile Row suit. 'Think
Jewish, dress British.' One of the only pieces of advice his
father had bothered to give him, and pretty good advice
too, Rosen had always thought.

He pushed his tongue into her mouth, enjoying her
instant response, enjoying her surprise.

The young are so arrogant, Rosen mused.

'Now get out of here,' he said firmly as he pulled offher.
'You've got work to do, Ms Rossi. Didn't you tell me this
morning that you were planning a piece on that new girl
over at Musica Records? The one who's just set up here? I
thought you were hot on doing some kind of expos6 for US
Woman. She's got quite a reputation already, this girl.
What's her name again?'

'Rowena Gordon,' said Topaz, drawing back from him.
Her face had-taken on a new hardness. 'But she's not
important. It's the band I'm interested in. There has to be a

I75


story there.'

Nathan looked up, Interesting. Now she was fidgeting,
couldn't wait to get back downstairs. He sighed. The girl
was a mystery to him.

'OK, good,' he said curtly. 'Atomic Mass, isn't that their
name? Joe told me you were digging around them, now I
come to think of it. Should make a good story. The
rumours about them are wild. Apparently they're the
next- '

'I know,' she said shortly.

He smiled at her. She was crazy and mixed up, but he
adored her.

'I'll see you tonight,' Nathan said, as she turned to go. 'I
love you. And by the way, Rowena Gordon is important,
Topaz. If she makes something 0fthis new company, she'll
be in a very powerful position.'


Thursday, 6 July dawned muggy and overcast. Grey skies
loomed over the city, hardly dissipating the heat that
seemed to steam up from the crowded sidewalks and
logjammed roads.

° The two candidates for editor of American Magazines'
new upmarket glossy, Economic Monthly, rode the elevator
to the boardroom on the fifty-ninth floor, one floor down
from Gowers' glass cradle of power. Both were wearing
suits and immaculately groomed, but Joe Goldstein looked
by far the more confident and relaxed.

He was carrying a large canvas folder containing charts
and statistics for his presentation. It was an understandable,
witty and highly expert summary of macroeconomic
conditions, designed to demonstrate once and for all how
suitable he was to edit this title - if his existing magazines
hadn't already established that beyond doubt.

He glanced at Topaz, who'd come armed.with nothing at
all. She was nervously tapping one hand against her thigh.

Joe hardened his heart. Little girls that bite off more than
they can chew get hurt; if Topaz Rossi insisted on playing
out of her league, she was just going to have to.learn her


I76


k

lesson the hard way.

He looked her over again, surreptitiously.

He'd been right about that cute ass, though.


The scnior committee watchcd Joe Goldstcin giving the
most polished, urbanc performance of his life. They were
fascinated, laughing and nodding from time to time. Nate
Rosen glanced at the papers of the man seated next to him;
he'd made a notc to call his broker.

Actually, Nate thought Goldstein was being pretty
gracious about this. He was paying Topaz the compliment
of giving it his best shot, not just showing up to have
management rubber-stamp a decision which was basically
already made.

He glanced at Topaz, sitting in a chair against the far wall,
watching Joc with polite attentiveness. She was dressed
soberly - navy Dior, rebellious red curls swept back in a
severe bun "- and she seemed anxious. Rosen felt a pang. He
wanted to comfort her, to tell her it didn't matter, that she
was only twenty-thrcc, therc'd be plenty more titles for her
later. He noticed the way her full breasts rose and fell as she
breathed, pushing against the stiff linen of her jacket. He
wanted her.

Nathan turned resolutely back to Joe, embarrassed. He
was supposed to be concentrating. Damn it, this whole
situation was his fault. His judgment wasn't sober or
impartial, not these days. He veered too far one way, then
too far the other. This go-called contest for Economic
Monthl), for example. It was one instance where he thought
she was totally off-track competin.g for it and Matt Gowers
was just trying to look liberated by fielding a woman
candidate. But it was his fault too. He had endorsed her for
it, when she'd insisted on trying out. He'd sat there in the
chairman's office and told his boss it was between Joc and
Topaz.

Who was he trying to kid? Joe was always going to
destroy her, and now here he was, destroying her right on
cue. He, Rosen, both as Topaz's lover and her boss, should


177

have been cruel to be kind and refused to put her name
forward. Now his own judgment would be called into
question.

But that was his mistake, his error. And he'd been
making Topaz pay for it. Coming down on her like a ton of
bricks in the editors' meetings. Cutting her dead in front of
their colleagues.

'... if it's dinars or dollars,' Goldstein concluded to
warm laughter and applause, and walked over to the chair
next to Topaz, offering his hand tO her as he sat down. She
shook it briskly, avoiding eye contact with him, murmuring
congratulations. The board at the table in front of them
had their heads down scribbling brief comments on their
sheets of paper. But it was obvious from the genial smiles on
their faces what they thought.

He did look terrific up there, Topaz admitted to herself.
Absolutely terrific. It's a shame he's such a jerk, because that
is one handsome, self-possessed sonofabitch.

'And now,' said the presiding secretary, 'the board will
hear Ms Topaz Rossi, editor of Girlfriend magazine and still
a journalistic contributor to many of our other titles.
Ms Rossi, if you please.'

Topaz got to her feet and regarded the seven pairs of eyes
looking at her with little more than polite interest.

'Mr Goldstein's presentation was the best, and the funniest,
piece of economic analysis I think I've ever heard,' she
began in a clear voice. 'And if he were applying for the job of
chief correspondent or senior features writer, I would give it

to him without hesitation.'

She paused.

'But it isn't the editor's job to write the magazine. I had
dinner with Mr Goldstein last month, and I admitted to him
then that I was no expert in economics. I said that I was an
expert in selling magazines. And that's still true.'

The seven pairs of eyes now looked considerably more
interested.

'The job of editor - the editor, mind you - at Economic
Monthly will not be to explain the General Agre.ement on


I78

Tariffs and Trade. It will be to take advertising and
circulation away from The Economist, Forbes, Fortune and

Business Week. And this is how I would do that.' 'Holy Shit! thought Nathan Rosen.
The board watched her, riveted.

I79


Chapter Sixteen


The public rivalry started with Marissa Matthews' column,
'Friday's People', published two weeks after the party.

Seeing Topaz with Nathan as a couple in public, and
hearing what had happened at the Economic Monthly pitch,

Marissa didn't pull any punches. On either of them.

Catfight at the most important party of the year... Musica

Records executive embarrassing her boss . . . Fiery redhead Topaz
Rossi . . . innuendo about 'sleeping with interviewees'.., do we remember the mysterious David Levine exclusive? . . . Watch
out, Manhattan, here come the Career Girlst.

'Ridiculous!' said Topaz, annoyed. She flung the paper on
to the kitchen table and dialled Marissa Matthews at home.
What do you mean by this?' she demanded.

'Who is it, please?' purred Matthews, as if she didn't

know.

'It's Topaz Rossi,' replied Topaz, furious.

'Darling!' Marissa crooned. 'Are you a little bit upset

about the column?'

'Marissa, I - '

'Journalistic integrity, sweetie. You, of all people, should
understand that. I mean, just look what you did to that
ravishing film star.'

'He was a woman-beater!' Topaz snapped, incensed at the
comparison.

'Well, darling, I haven't ruined your career, now have I?
It's simply the truth that you and your friend did make a
scene at dear Elizabeth's party, and it was so very dramatic!
All that wonderful stuffabout territory, and sleeping with
people to get interviews! Not that I personally believe it, of


I8o

course, but one always wondered how you got that
story . . . it did kick-start your career in the most fabulous
way, and I do have a duty to my readers.'

She paused, then repeated with relish, 'To my many millions of readers, especially in New York - I mean,
sweetie, anyone who is anyone in this towu reads...'

Topaz slammed the phone down on her in disgust.


'I thiuk it's funny,' Michael Krebs told her. 'It's a hell of a
way to announce your arrival, though. You have some kind
of history with this girl?'

'I dou't want to talk about it,' Rowena answered wearily.
Her phone had been going all day from reporters wanting to
run a 'Rivals' story in various magazines.

Krebs nodded. A story like this was bad news.

'Did Oberman have anything to say?'

'Yes he did,' she said shortly. Her chairman had the
'Friday's Pebple' colunm faxed to him every week, and was none too pleased to see his newly appointed MD starring in
what was described as a hitch-fight during the most
important social event of the year. He'd given her a lecture
of businesslike conduct, ending up with 'You kuow what,
Rowena? A lot of people in this industry don't like me
putting a womau in charge. Don't make it harder for me by
giving them ammunition.'

She had burued with shame at the rebuke, more so
because he was right.

'Forget about it,' Krebs told her. 'You've got euough to
do setting up this label. I kuow it's been tough.'

'It has. It is,' she said, under pres.sure and anxious.

'I could help,' Michael offered, brushing herhair out of
her eyes. She felt the cool metal of his wedding ring against
her temple.

'It's my problem. I'll handle it,' Rowena said, but already
part of her was wondering if she could.


BOOM! Atomic Mass were everywhere. And that meant everywhere.


181

Displays in the store windows. Ads in the music magazines.
Billboards across the city, cleverly designed to show a
picture of the boys, slouching togcthcr against a wall and
looking meanly at the cameras, like five longhaired
versions of James Dean. The one-word straplinc at the base
of the posters said simply: COMING.

MTV had an exclusive right to show the video, and it
was making good use of it. God, sometimes heavy rotation
means heavy rotation, Rowena thought, delighted, as she
switched on yet again and found it pumping away.

Zach Freeman, holding his guitar like an offensive
weapon.

Alex Sexton, strumming hard at the bass and checking
out the girls in the front, cute pieces ofjailbait with the
darkly kohled eyes that were in fashion amongst the
alternative music crowd right now. Despite the perfect

street'cred

	calling cards, the camera showed all the women

in a very old-fashioned state of high sexual excitement.

Mark Thomas attacking his drumkit like it just in
sulted his mother. Pan to shots of guys in the audience,
screaming approval and hurling themselves into a raging
fiaosh-pit.

Jake Williams, rhythm guitarist, grinding out a swing

that you wouldn't believe.

And Joe Hunter, lead singer, six foot three of Lancashire
muscle, with his tumbling brown hair and handsome,
slightly slanted eyes, taking total control of the stage,
prowling like a wild panther, all his youth and inexperience

counting for nothing. He didn't need experience.
He was a natural.
He was a star.

'But is it on the radio? We laced airplay,' Josh fretted,
ringing her the first day Warners had released the track to
radio.

'Oberman,' his new managing director soothed him, 'it's

ou the radio. It's on the playlist for every Top Forty station

in New York. The song is a fucking phenomenon.'

'Is it getting out to the other markets? Dallas, LA,


I82

Chicago, Minnesota?' Josh asked the next day. 'Warners
swear it is. But they would. You tell me.'

'It's breaking out like a rash. Like it was contagious,'
Rowena assured him.

'You know what? This business is going to rot your
brain,' he told her. 'Forget that Oxford education, your
vocabulary is about to contract into two sentences- "It's a
hit." "It's not a hit."'

'This,' said Rowena firmly, 'is a hit.'

Oberman laughed, his grating roar reaching across the
Atlantic, rich with satisfaction. 'I think you might be right,'
he said. 'That bastard Krebs! I thought he was doing us a
favour, but he was just spotting talent. Now he gets five per
cent off the top. Sonofabitch! I've known the guy for long
enough, I should have guessed.'

Rowena couldn't resist it. 'If you'd come up with a
million five in the first place, she pointed out, 'we wouldn't
be getting royally screwed now. Anyway, why did you tell
me to go and get Michael Krebs for a hundred and fifty
thousand dollars? You must have known that was never
gonna happen.'

'I did,' Oberman admitted. 'I dunno, kid, it was an
impulse. I wanted to send you in to get him with your back
against the wall. See what you'd come up with. I had a sense
that you two would be good together, and I wanted him to
get interested in you. With the right amount of money,
you'd have been just another client to him. And Atomic
Mass would have been justanother band.'

Rowena put the phone down, feeling yet again that Josh
Oberman was one of the most cunning, knowing men
alive. How well he'd understood Michael Krebs. How well
he'd understood her.

And the rise of Atomic Mass continued at full force.
Barbara Lincoln had flown over and checked into the
Paramount and Rowena was to meet her there every
morning to begin the promotional round. Officially, it was
none of her business. Rowena worked for Musica, and until
they built up a distribution network Atomic Mass's label in


I83

the States was Elektra. But Barbara and the band insisted, so
that was that. Rowena, and usually Michael Krebs, too,
piled into the limo with the guys as they headed off to the
Warners building to start the day's round of interviews,
photoshoots and radio phone-ins.

She had no time to attend to the new label. Forget that,
Rowena thought. It'll wait.


'Hey, Rowena! How's it going?' Barbara asked her, kissing
her on the cheek. She admired the burgundy Donna Karan
tunic, the Charles David pumps, the silk hose from
Wolford's. 'You look terrific.'

'So do you,' her friend said, returning the kiss and the
admiring glance. Barbara was dressed in a silk slip Armani
dress, complete with beaded straps, Italian heels and a
Hermes scarf. Every day she turned up in something
impossibly glamorous and totally impractical. Barbara
made no concessions to minor matters like the dirt of
Manhattan or the fact that all the Warners people wore
jeans.

Let's face it, Rowena thought, smiling. Barbara makes no
concessions to anything.

'It's the only reason we're working with you,' Mark
teased them. 'Can't be surrounded by anything except
beautiful women now. Bad for our image.'

'Our image! You fucking prat,'Joe snarled, pushing his
drummer in the shoulder.

'Hangover?' asked Krebs, who was sitting directly across
from Rowena in the limo. He'd nodded curtly at her as she
got in the car, and that was about it. Michael was super
cautious these days. The old gushing about her talents had
gone completely, and since she'd arrived in New York he
had scarcely complimented her publicly. Rowena had been
forced to point out to him that unless he acknowledged that
they were at least friends, everyone would assume they
were having an affair. You don't go from red-hot to ice
cold without a good reason. God, men were so stupid.
Especially the smart ones.


I84

Joe nodded, grimacing. 'Went down to Continental
Divide. I was on shorts all night.'

'You'll pay,' said Michael, like a stern father.

The singer shrugged as their limo pulled smoothly away
into the traffic.

'What he doesn't say is that he was up all night with these
three girls who - '

'Zach!' Krebs warned sharply, glancing at their manager,
but the guitarist grinned.

'Barbara don't give a fuck about that,' he said, quite
accurately.

She nodded, smiling at the producer with elegant ildifference.
Rowena marvelled at how changed she was. Just a
few months looking after a rock band, and Barbara already
understood the first instinctive rules. Like, you don't mess
with your act's sex life.

'They can do what they like. They're not old married
men like yoga, Michael,' Barbara said. And even so I wouldn't

give afuck, her tone implied.

Krebs grunted.

When the band and Barbara had got deep into a discussion
of promotion for the album launch, he finally looked over at
Rowena. Cute dress. She looked like a schoolgirl in that
dress. Michael felt himself getting aroused. He was disturbed,
he'd planned on giving bet up by now. Any longer
and something must surely slip, she'd tell Barbara, she'd
mention something to Josh, the band would pick up on it.
There was no way he couldrisk Debbie finding out.

He loved his wife, and he lived for his sons. The family. It
was the most important thing in life, Michael always said.
His own parents had provided for'him, but little more; to
this day he resented them for it. Ten thousand dollars'
worth of therapy swore his control-freak tendencies came
directly from that. And Michael thought it was true. He
could remember deciding that if that was the way it was
gonna be, then he was going to be in full control.
lermanently.

Maybe that was the lure of Rowena Gordon, Krebs '


185

thought, letting his dark gaze travel slowly up those slender
calves, to the shadow under the fall of her skirt, and then
further up, as if he could see through the darkness through
sheer force of will, please himself by gazing at those pale,
supple thighs and the delights that lay between them. There
had been many women, some more beautiful, more skilled
in bed than Rowena. But few so intelligent as she was.
Michael Krebs, like many Jewish men, prized intelligence in
everyone, including women. It didn't scare him off, it
attracted him. Amongst other things it meant that Rowena
came to him with her eyes open, having understood the
hopelessness of her position, but coming to his bed anyway.
And maybe that was the lure. His complete control over

her.

I love my wife. I've been a good father to my sons, better
than my father was to me, Krebs thought, and then Rowena
shifted in her seat and caught him staring at her. He watched
her instant reaction, the lips parting, the blood rushing to
the face, her green eyes glancing at him, then away again,
pretending to watch midtown Manhattan through the
limo's tinted windows. His cock hardened in his pants.
lang, just like that. He had her again.

The band and Barbara were still jabbering away at each
other.

'Rowena,' Michael said softly. Her name, a command.
She looked at him, her thighs flaming from the feeling
that he'd been looking at her, thinking about her, reminding
himself of the last things they'd done together. Lust started
to lick at her. It had been four days ago, just before the
release of the record. Michael had taken her to her apartment
on West 67th and made her undress for him in her
bedroom, removing her clothes exactly as he instructed. He
had been excruciatingly slow, making her wait, turn and
move as he directed, so that by the time she was naked
Rowena was so aroused she could hardly stand up. Krebs
hadsat there, fully clothed, his erection clearly visible under
his jeans, and made her just stand before him, naked, while
he talked to her about what he was going to do with her and

how, getting Rowena hotter and hotter, until she was
weeping with sheer desire, but he'd still made her stand
there. She remembered how the combination of being so
exposed in front of a clothed man, and what he was saying,
and her submission to him, had brought her so close to the
brink that when Krebs stood up and came across to her, still
not touching her, and had very deliberately walked round
her, staring at the whole of her body, her ass, her breasts,
her legs, and finally let his gaze trail obviously and slowly
between her legs, Rowena's haunches had shuddered in an
uncontrollable movement and she'd climaxed, coming for
Michael Krebs when he hadn't even laid a finger on her.

'Yes, Michael?' she replied now, the coolness of her tone
belying the wild heat in her belly.

What's wrong with me? Rowena thought. I can't even be
near the guy without melting all over the seat.

Krebs smiled, his liquid brown eyes refusing to accept her
outward calm. 'Wanna have lunch?' he asked casually. 'I can
play you the final mixes for the b-sides.'

'Sure,' Rowena said, anticipation oozing from every
pore.

Oh, love was a drug. It made you higher than acid or
ecstasy or anything. Michael, Michael, the universe itself
was less important than his smile, he was the first thing she
thought of when she woke in the mornings and the last
image in her mind at night. There was the trial of setting up
the label. The triumph of watching Atomic Mass break.
The danger of Topaz Rossi, something Rowena sensed,
feared, and knew she'd have to deal with.

But over that and above it was Michael Krcbs, and the
heady, maddening passion Rowen felt for him, Love. Like
a fine, golden mist, settling over everything. Informing
everything she did. The backdrop to life. 'hat will Krebs
think? When can I tell him? What would Michael do? Where is he

HOW?

Yes, she knew he was married.
Yes, she knew he had children.
Yes, she knew it was wrong.


I87

But Rowena Gordon didn't care. She was in love, in that
rare, complete thraldom that true first love demands.
Anyone who has ever experienced it knows exactly what
it's like. Rowena, as she sat in that car, looking at her
married lover, was prepared to sacrifice anything and
everything in order to keep him around. Her pride. Her
heart. Her principles. Her honour.

'It's your turn, I think,' Michael said, holding her in their
private conversation, locking her gaze in his.

'To buy lunch? Yeah, I think so too,' Rowena agreed,
inflecting her tone with just that subtle shade of extra
meaning Michael had used.

They both knew what he meant. That Michael had
pleasured Rowena the last time they met, and it was her turn
now. She would do what he loved, sweeping her long, fine
hair across his body so it teased him with millions of
featherlight strokes, then moving down with her lips and
her tongue until she reached his groin, then easing the wiry
grey hairs around the flat of his stomach, circling the base of
his cock until he couldn't stand it any more, and grabbed her
head by the hair, insistently pushing her down on him.
Sometimes Rowena licked him first, the tip of her tongue
running round the tip of his cock, flicking at the sensitive
little triangle just under the crown, and then when the
pleasure got too much for him to bear without coming,
moving down to the base again, then holding him hard and
wet in her hands, using her fingers and tongue to bring him
to a crashing orgasm. Other times, she simply responded by
taking him deep, deep into her mouth, carefully angling his
thickness so it got to the very back of her throat. Michael
could only take a little of that before he came, erupting into
her with a groan of satisfaction, staggered at how incredible
it felt to see this girl swallow him whole. She was so good at
sucking cock, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven.
And she loved it. That was what truly aroused Michael so
much that sometimes he woke up in the night, next to his
wife, with a raging hard-on for Rowena that refused to go
away. Other women would either refuse or grudgingly

I88


agree to it, as a special favour to their men. You could order
a groupie to do what you liked, of course. But that was quid
pro quo. Rowena was so into Michael, so wild with lust for
him, that she fantasized about doing it to him. She begged
for it. And he'd never known anything - not on tour, not
with girlfriends, not with his wife - like the rapture he felt
when Rowena Gordon was kneeling in front of him, her
long blonde hair halfway down her back, her little bud
nipples erect, giving him head, her eyes closed in sexual
frenzy, making those tiny choking sounds at the back of
her throat that drove him fucking crazy, as he rammed
himself into her, roughly, foFcing her to take it all in, asking
her how he tasted, if she wanted more, if she loved it. Once
she'd even reached up blindly, groping for his hands, and he
hadn't known what she wanted until with a fresh rush of sex
he understood she was putting them on the back of her

head, asking for it harder, deeper, more.
Michael flt his hard-on swelling.
Rowena saw it.

A conspiratorial look passed between them, shared
desire, shared annoyance at being in company, shared
helplessness to do anything about it. And then Rowena
grinned, and Krebs winked at her, and they felt a huge surge

of affection and friendship, on top of the desire. Christ, I like him so much, Rowena marvelled. That girl is terrific, Michael thought.

The limo purred to a halt outside the Warners offices, and
as it did so, a small crew of photographers ran forward,
poised to snap pictures of the band.

'Get used to it, guys,' Barbara said, glancing at her
producer and A&R girl with evident satisfaction. 'You'll
need to.'


HEAT STREET- OUT NEXT WEEK, screamed the
banner ads.

New British Invasion? asked RIP magazine, giving a
picture of Joe space on the cover.

Oh, You Pretty Things, cooed the Village Voice.


I89

'What's heavy metal got that rap and country don't?'
asked Rolling Stone. 'Precious little, if recent sales are
anything to go by. Except, of course, metal can lay claim to
Atomic Mass, a new band from England who are causing a
sensation on MTV with "Karla", the first single on their
Krebs-produced debut Heat Street, .out on Warners next
week. Playing music brutal enough to appea!to fans of early
Metallica, and good-looking enough to steal young girls from the teenybop bands, the act are tipped as the next Led
Zeppelin. Can you say crossover?'

Overhyped. Overrated. Over here ran the headline in Westside's influential music section atop a devastating attack,
sneering at alternative fans for falling at the feet of a band
'snug in the arms of the machine, protected by Warners'
marketing might and Michael Krebs's Midas touch'. The
Wednesday that article ran, the band's low-key gig at
CBGBs was half empty.

'Fuck 'em, if they want to stay away because some paper
tells them to,'Jake snarled, but he wasn't used to playing to
an audience with gaps in it and it pissed him off.

'Is Topaz Rossi behind this?' Josh Oberman demanded
from London, spitting with rage. Tve got the fucking TIME and Melody Maker all ready to run articles on Atomic
Mass being a heavy metal Suede. And MTV Europe
reported the CBGB show on the news.'

'Yes, she is,' Rowena said, her anger returning.

'That bitch!' her boss swore. 'Is this her idea of revenge?'

Rowena smiled grimly. 'Oh, this isn't Topaz's revenge,'
she told him. 'This is just a calling card.'

Topaz needn't worry herself,. Rowena thought. She was

having enough trouble here without needing any help.
Everyone took Atomic Mass seriously.
No one took Musica Records seriously.

As the scout who'd signed the flavour of the month,
Rowena Gordon was respected, regularly showered with
job offers, and had her ass kissed by promoters and agents
and anyone who thought she might have some clout with
Barbara Lincoln.

As the 'Managing Director' - yeah, right! - of Luther
Records, the name she'd given to Musica's new subsidiary
in New York, she couldn't persuade an act to sign with her.
No big-time managers would commit their new acts to a
European company that was just tinkering around in the
United States. No, they were all happy to deal with Musica
in Europe, but let a US major sign the act first and then rent
it out to Musica for Europe.

The trouble with that was that the US label took a
royalty. Just like Musica did when Elektra sold an Atomic
Mass single.

And they'd go on missing American repertoire.

And she, Rowena, would have failed.

Rowena looked out at the ligh.ts of Manhattan from
Luther's tiny, cramped offices at the top of a narrow
building on Leonard Street, and knew there was no way she
was giving up. Michael Krebs lived here, Atomic Mass
were tasting their first big success here, and fifty per cent of
all the records in the world were sold here. Anyway, she
loved New York. She'd made friends in her building,
friends in the clubs, friends down at the Marquee, the
Bottom Line, and all the other venues where her face was
getting known. Josh Oberman had been right about her
wanting to change her life.

Here people were interested in what she did, not who her
parents were.

Hadn't Rick Rubin managed it? Rowena reminded
herself sternly, after another door slammed in her face.
Surely she could do it. All she had to do was find a really
talented, really good new band who'd be happy to sign with
her despite the risks. A band so'new.they didn't have a fucking manager.

She stared out at the city. It was the place to be, she could
feel that in her bones. Lady Liberty, wasn't she the patron
saint of career girls?

Fuck you, Topaz Rossi, Rowena thought. I'm here to stay. All she had to do was sign a good band. Fast.

191


Chapter Seventeen


The rivalry escalated with Joe Hunter on Oprah.

'But why do you guys get such adulation from some of

the press, and yet other magazines are . . .'

She held up a copy of White Light, the cover plastered

with a shot of Mark Thomas taken during some gig, in
motion. His mouth was open and his eyes were shut in a
pose that made him look like a moron. The strapline was WORST BAND IN THE WORLD.)

The audience laughed. Oprah held the magazine between

thumb and forefinger, as if it were a piece of trash, the wry
expression on her face making her distaste clear.

'Oh, it don't bother us,' Joe answered firmly, the

northern accent making some women on the audience
visibly squirm on their seats in delight. 'We don't care about
the press, we only care about the fans. We've just hit
number one in America with our first single and we're on
tour with bloody Guns n' Roses. White Light can go . . .
stuffthemselves,' he finished carefully, remembering just in
time that they were on coast-to-coast TV.

The host smiled, charmed by the singer's forthright
speaking. In an age where most rock stars' hairdressers had
publicity agents, and said exactly what they were told,
Atomic Mass obviously couldn't care less. The smoked,
they drank, they ate red meat, they screwed a lot of girls and
they said things like' White Light can go stuffthemselves' on
primetimc shows.

They were likable.
They were dangerous.
They meant ratings.


I92

'Fair enough,' she said. 'And you have no idea why
opinion on you is so split?'

Joe gestured to the magazine she was holding. 'With that
one there I do,' he said. 'That article was written by Josie
Simons. She writes in-house on music for American
Magazines, and her boss is a girl called Topaz Rossi, who's
an old rival of our A & R girl, Rowena Gordon- the woman
who gave us a record deal. Rowena's working in New York
now, and Topaz Rossi is determined to give her a really hard
time. So she gets at us. There's hardly been one article
published by magazines in that company that don't slag us
off. So we ignore it.'

'Are you sure?' Oprah asked, scenting something interesting.
Like a high-profile libel case, for a start.

Joe shrugged. 'Barbara Lincoln, our manager, went
through all the American Magazines articles with us.
They're all the same. Maybe it's coincidence, but I don't
think so.' o

'And how do you feel about that?'

Hunter leant forward and looked straight into the
camera, his brown eyes angry. He knew this girl Rossi
would be watching.

'It's what you expect, right?' he replied. 'Rowena
Gordon's a doer. Rowena participates, and Topaz commentates.
It don't mean nothing to Atomic Mass.'

With her perfect sense of timing, Oprah let the tension
hang in the air for just long enough. Then she waded in to
break it up.

'A female talent scout, a female manager- we don't think
of Atomic Mass as exactly leading the feminist charge,' she
remarked to loud laughter. The firs't albu.m wasn't even out
yet, and already the stories of what they got up to on the
road were being printed in the National Enquirer. 'Do you
like working with women?'

Joe gave the camera a wink.

'We like doing everything with women,' he replied.


'It reflects badly on the company,' Matt Gowers said. 'I take "


I93

on board what you're saying, Topaz- and we all know your
work on Girlfriend is terrific and your journalistic contributions
to US Woman are invaluable.'

Joe Goldstein kept his face impassive as he watched Rossi
burning up with humiliation. She was obviously itching to
defend herself, but he'd noticed Nathan Rosen kick her
under the table, and she was now biting her lips in order to
force herself to keep quiet.

'And we couldn't be happier with the way Economic
Monthly is selling,' Gowers added.

For once, the reference to his recent defeat didn't hit Joe in
the solar plexus. No, it was Rossi's turn to try to hold her
head up in front of her colleagues. Don't smile, don't smile,
don't smile, thought Joe. Topaz had gloated when she
surprised everybody by beating him out of the new glossy.
She'd lost a lot of friends that way.

He glanced round the editors' meeting. A number of
them were looking down and smirking. This was the first

real setback Topaz had had since she joined the company,
and many of them weren't sorry. The girl had started to act

like she was the Queen of Sheba. Like she was invincible.

,
	Well, that long-haired English boy had had other ideas.

Not that this was a threat to Topaz's career, as the

chairman was making clear. But it was her first fuck-up.
Rap-on-the-knuckles time.

Joe Goldstein was enjoying himself.

'But even if, as you say, you didn't bring pressure to bear
onJosie or Tiz or Jason, Topaz, it looks bad. Our lawyers
have told us we'd have a tough time bringing a case. So
unless there's a real story, lay offthis band, OK?'

'Yes, sir,' said Topaz, ashamed and enraged. The fact that
Gowers was obviously right only made it worse. She could
feel the eyes of her co-workers crawling over her skin.

Topaz glanced at Joe Goldstein, who wasn't looking at
her. Apparently he was fascinated by the meeting agenda.
She knew that it was an act, he was faking it to be polite.

Self-righteous jerk! she thought.

I94


Rowena Gordon watched the sun sinking over Central Park
from her luxurious apartment window, and felt her heart
sinking with it. Another night of futile talent-hunting.
Another night when she didn't want the acts that were
prepared to sign with Luther Records, and the ones she did
want wouldn't sign.

She pulled on her clothes. Tailored black slacks by Ralph
Lauren. Long-sleeved Soundgarden shirt. Ankleboots by
Manolo Blahnik.

That day at work, the Luther offices had been almost
silent. Lucy, her secretary, had taken exactly four calls;
three of them from Josh Oberman about work on the new
Roxana Perdita record back home-Jack Reich was supervising
her career now, but Rowena liked to keep in touch
with her other two acts- and one from Matthew Stevenson,
sneeringly asking when they might see a New York band in
exchange for their investment. He'd pretended it was a joke,
but Rowena-knew better.

It wasn't like she was in danger of getting fired. As long as
Roxana, Bitter Spice and of course Atomic Mass kept
selling records, she was safe. Even without the protection of
Joshua Oberman and Michael Krebs.

But there was a timebomb under her, and she knew it.
Oberman had been given leave to develop an American
operation over the objections of other board members, and
there was a time limit on her bringing home some bacon.
Three months. After that, they'd close the American
company and bring her back to run Atomic's career in
Europe.

She was one month down.

Rowena walked into the bedroom to grab her bag, and
was greeted with the sight of her rumpl6d bed, the Irish
linen sheets tumbled from her sex with Michael Krebs that
afternoon. A mixed-up pang of lust and longing ran
through her, and she buried her face in the bedclothes,
drinking in the scent of him. She felt like crying. Michael
had been so detached this afternoon, so cold. When he was
dressed, he'd turned to her and said, 'Fmjust gonna call my

I95


wife and then I'm gonna get back to the studio,' and when
he'd seen her stricken expression, Krebs had added,
annoyed, 'Come on, Rowena. I'm not rubbing it in your
face. We're friends and that's it.'

She could still feel the inexpressible chill that had run
through her. My wife. My sons. My family, which is a tight
little club from which you are excluded.

And even worse, the subtext. I love my wife. I don't love
you. I'll never love you.

Why was he so bloody honest about it? Rowena thought
bitterly. At least if he lied, she could hate him. She could
blame him. She could say she was tricked, deceived like all
the other mistresses from time immemorial with promises
that he loved her, he'd leave his wife for her. But Michael
Krebs was a stand-up guy. He followed his own rules and he
wouldn't lie to her. In fact, he preferred almost anything to
discussing their relationship.

'Let's talk about us,' Rowena would say. If she was
feeling brave.

'Us? There is no us,' Michael would answer with
displeasure. 'We're friends. I've said it before.'

' 'I try to measure what I do by whether you would do it,'
Rowena said to him, as they stood together in a private box
at Madison Square Gardens, waiting for Atomic Mass to
come on and play their support set.

Michael gave her an affectionate smile. 'Except that you
should try to be the most moral and ethical person you can be.'

She felt a great sense of distress. 'But Michael, you are,

totally moral and ethical,' she sid.

'Except in one respect.'

'That's my fault,' Rowena said.

'No, it's my fault,' he replied, also sadly.

She hated to hear him say he felt guilty, when guilt was
eating her alive. She hated to think of herself as a mistress,
but was furious when he refused even to call her that. She
could see, quite clearly, as though she were watching
someone else, how hopeless and destructive this affair was


I96

for both of them, but especially her. After all, Michael
wasn't in love.

Rowena Gordon had decided - a cold, academic, intelligent
decision- that she was not going to end up like all those
other women. Abandoned by a lover who ran back to his
wife, frozen out of the society of mutual friends, begging
the guy to call her again. She'd seen it happen to girlfriends
of the band. All of a sudden you were out of the charmed
circle, doors shut, access revoked. Well, she was a career
girl, even if her progress was a little slow right now. She
was young, beautiful, well-bred and self-reliant. She wasn't
about to immolate herself on the altar of a married man
twice her age - even if he was a musical genius, frighteningly
intelligent, ferociously intelligent, devastatingly
handsome, one of her all-time heroes, spectacular in
bed.., oh, Christ Almighty. Oh, dear God, Rowena
thought, forcing herself to pull her face out of the sheets.
She'd have to tell him to get lost. At least as far as sex went.

But in her heart she knew they were empty words. Rowena was so in love with Michael Krebs she couldn't see
straight.

'Come on,' she said aloud. 'Let's go to work.'


The Girlfriend offices were busy as hell. Phones were ringing
off the hook, the staff writers were yelling at each other, teen
models in Gap outfits traipsed round the desks, waiting for
Sasha Stone or Alex Waters to call them into the photo room
for that week's fashion layout. In one corner, the sales and
advertising team were busiest of all, sitting in almost
permanent crouches over their desks, either dealing with
desperate make-up companies, fighting over the. last square
inches of ad space, or logging yet more" orders from new retailers, mom-and-pop stores outside the national loop.

Success, success, success. It was only the editor's insistence
that stopped them from doubling the thickness of
each issue with glossy ads, or raising the cover price by ten
cents. Topaz let nothing interfere with the magazine itself. Girlfriend was a sensation, and she planned on keeping '


I97

it that way.

'Where's the editor? I need to speak to the editor,' a stylist
begged Tiz Correy, the talented twenty-year-old features
editor.

Topaz had hired her own crew, and she'd hired carefully:
young, gifted kids barely older than their target readers.
The strategy had proved brilliant, and Rossi had repeated it
over at Economic Monthly, where the most media-friendly
Harvard experts had columns next to guest industrialists,
powerful figures who wrote every month on their personal
rules for profitability - Ross Perot, Rupert Murdoch,
Michael Eisner. With both her titles, Topaz followed her
gut instincts. With both of them, she followed what she
thought was a fundamental trait in the American psyche
the need to hero-worship. For teenage girls, that meant
Madonna. For businessmen, that meant Bill Gates. But the
rule was the same.

'American Magazines' new flagship comes across as Vanity Fair meets The Economist,' sneered the Wall Street
Journal, but as far as Topaz was concerned, the only good
title was one that sold.

, Economic Monthly was selling.

'The boss is busy,' Tiz shrugged, gesturing to the editor's
office, the door of which was firmly shut. Even over the din
of the offices, the sound of raised voices - a man's and a
woman's - could be heard.

'But Sasha won't let me dress Jolene in her JeanPaul
Gaultier jacket. And it would look divine,' the little man
pouted. 'Who's she talking to, anyway?'

'Mr Rosen. He's a director of the board,' Tiz answered
firmly, hoping to shut him up. 'And Jolene will wear the

PaulGap likeGaultier.,everyone else. Girlfriend readers can't afford Jean

'How could you not let me know? I am so goddamn
emlarrassed!' Nathan shouted. 'White Light. Westside. Fucking Girlfriend magazine. Article after article on this
goddamn band! We look so stupid, Topaz! And I get it


98

shoved in my face on fucking Oprah!'

'I didn't write them all,' Topaz said sullenly. Couldn't he
give it a break? She'd had the lecture this morning.

'Yeah, but you let your feelings be known to the people
whose pay cheques you sign. In no uncertain terms. Am I
right?' demanded Nathan, stalking round her office. The
blue vein at the side of his grey temple was pulsing, and he
looked awkward in the tailored suit.

'Can't we talk about it later?' Topaz asked.

Rosen felt anger rise up in his throat, half choking him.
He felt so stressed-out, his blood pressure must be off the
scale. First that damn Oprah show airs yesterday, and no one
has the guts to mention it to him because the girl he's living
with is the one being criticized. Then Topaz and he had a
fight last night because she wanted to make love again, and
he didn't. Who did she think he was? Superman? And to cap
it all, Matt Gowers had called him into his office this
morning anet fucking carpeted him.

As director of the East Coast, he was responsible for
editorial policy. As Topaz Rossi's line manager, he was
responsible for her actions. And as a board member living
with one of the staff, he'd better be damn sure he didn't get
any wires crossed.

'I value you and I value Topaz,' Gowers had said dryly.
'And what you do in your spare time is nobody's business
but yours. Except when it interferes in our affairs. You
should have seen this and stopped it, Rosen. Don't let it
happen again.'

'No, sir,' Nathan said, nodding.

It was his textbook nightmare, come to life.


'No we cannot talk about it later!' he roared, suddenly Westside's editor again, faced with an impertinent junior.
'Later is personal! This is business!'

He wrenched open the door. 'I hope to hell you can
separate the two of them, Topaz,' he said, 'Because we
don't have a future if you can't.'

I99


Rowena threaded her way through the crowd to Joe,
precariously balancing two large vodkas on the rocks.
CBGBs was only half full, the narrow corridor of the club
still giving her space to breathe. Not like a week ago, when
Atomic had played a warm-up gig to start the tour. Tonight
she could actually see Velocity, the new band, onstage, as
well as hear the dark, brittle frenzy of their movement. It
pounded through the club, hard as diamonds, heavy as lead.

Joe was slouching against one of the far walls, which was
papered with flyers. She could see the intent expression on
his face as he watched the band, carefully, the way one
musician watches another. Rowena felt happiness wash
through her. This was what made it all worthwhile. A dark
club, a great band, optimism, music. To the kids in the
crowd she was just another girl, a pretty student type from
NYU. They accepted her as one of them, without comment,
and she loved that.

'What do you reckon?' she asked .Joe, handing him his
drink.

'I think you should go for it,' he replied, not taking his
eyes off the stage.

, 'That's what I think, too,' Rowena said happily.

They were both too engrossed with Velocity to notice the
short, unassuming brunette a few paces behind them,
watching them both and making notes.


On his way home - he and Topaz never left the office
together - Nate Rosen was struck by a pang of remorse.
Topaz's stricken face when he threatened to break up with
her had been on his mind all day: He saw something that had
been absent from her personality almost as long as he'd

known her.

Fear.

The Topa.z Rossi he knew was not about fear. She was
about stupid risks, naked aggression and brilliant journalism.
She was about imagination and a refusal to give up.
The Topaz who'd shot down David Levine. Who'd surprised
the whole board by creaming Joe Goldstein for


200

Economic Monthly.

That vote, he remembered guiltily, had been unanimous,
not just cast by him. And the sales figures on the title
showed what a great job she was doing. True, maybe Joe
could have done better, but it would be close.

Topaz had changed from the pushy kid he'd first hired.
No doubt about it. Ever since 'NY Scene' had been
syndicated, she'd grabbed her success and hung on to it with
both hands. It was like the eighties had never finished:
Chanel, St-Laurent, Dior. Bright colours, high heels and
lots of jewellery. Interior-designed apartment. Joy
perfume. A black Porsche 91 Turbo. Rolex. Patek
Philippe, and dinners for two at 2 and the Four Seasons.

She was different in the office, too. At first she'd settled in
slowly to her role as editor of Girlfriend, testing the waters,
being cautious and polite to the staff. But as it became clear
that Topaz's ideas in the dummy she'd produced were good
ones, ones-that worked in practice, she started to change.
Overriding the old features editor. Personally designing
new layouts. Sometimes even yelling at the staff writers.

The approach had caused outrage. Who was this Italian
kid in her early twenties who thought she could show them
how to run their magazine? With her colourful clothes and
her board director boyfriend, the girl had had one scoop and
thought she was Si Newhouse. Resentment was high, but
so was the new circulation. Topaz, finding herself in charge
for the first time in her life, had apparently turned into Attila
the Hun in couture. She stuck rigidly to her guns and if her
authority was challenged she fired the challenger. After the
third month, she started firing people anyway and replacing
them with younger, hipper, mort tale.nted journalists and
photographers. Topaz Rossi was intent on making Girlfriend the best and when staff called her a loudmouthed
Italian bitch she just shrugged.

'Whatever it takes,' was her attitude.

Nobody interfered. Topaz was selling magazines and she
was selling ads and she was keeping down costs. It had been
her idea to use teenage models for the cover, and from the'

20I


second she'd sat down in the editor's office, Girlfriend had
never employed another supermodel.

'They cost too much. They're too thin, too famous and a
bad role model for the American teenager,' she told the
editors' meeting. 'Girlfriend readers like Janet Reno, Nancy
Kerrigan and Winona Ryder.'

Nathan remembered it now, the sensation of pride and
lust he'd had Watching her give it to them, standing there in
a dark green tunic by Gianfranco Ferre, the simplicity of the
dress countered by an armful of glittering glass bracelets
from Butler & Wilson. Amongst the army of sombre dark
suits and the occasional neutral dress, Topaz had stood out
like a sore thumb encrusted with rubies. Joe Goldstein had
remarked to Nathan later - apparently forgetting their
relationship - that Topaz used her beauty like an offensive
, weapon.

'And we will never run another advert featuring Kate
Moss,' Topaz went on, daring anybody to contradict.
'Anorexia isn't glamorous.'

At which point every man in the room had involuntarily
looked up and down her own incredible curves until Nathan
hal hastily thanked her for her presentation, and called on
Richard Gibson at White Light to give his report.

Rosen shifted in his seat, feeling his anger dissolve and the
first stirrings of desire take its place. Every guy at American
would give a month's wages to trade places with him for
five minutes, and he knew it. But Topaz was his. She
wanted him. Not only that, but she'd pursued him relentlessly.
It was flattering.

And he'd been in therapy long enough to see some of
what was causing this heady materialism, this need for
display and aggression. Topaz was nervous and scared. It
was a classic reaction; the girl was hiding her insecurity
behind fitted Versace, and her terror behind naked aggression.
She was worst of all with Joe Goldstein; Jesus, those
two were such competitors now it was almost a joke. The
unstoppable force and the immovable object.

The gaudy clothes? That was simpler still. Not that she

202


didn't look great in them - a girl like Topaz Rossi could
carry that look with ease. But she used to dress in a far
simpler, less attention-grabbing style and he could date the
change exactly from the night of Elizabeth Martin's party:
when Topaz had worn a Chanel sheath and that Rowena
Gordon girl, the record executive, had turned up in a huge
sweeping ballgown, with spectacular ruby earrings.

Which also explained her fury over the way Atomic Mass
had shot to stardom. And her pain this morning when he'd
threatened to break it offwith her.

Topaz Rossi had been rejected by her father and betrayed
by her best friend. No wonder the poor kid was bruised. It
was insensitive of him not to remember that.

Rosen picked up the car phone and dialled Meilenick's,
the exclusive Fifth Avenue florist. Fuck business. Fuck Matt
Gowers. Topaz was his girl, and he was happy about that.
Still.


'If you want them, go get them.'

'I can't, Josh. I don't have a budget authorized yet,'
Rowena said, shivering. The heating in Luther's offices had
given up the ghost, and she was beginning to feel like her
American career was, too. How could I have been this
disorganized? Rowena thought. First I can't find a band.
Then I get sick with worry over finding a band and now,
because I neglected to hire a good accountant, I can't sign the
fucking band.

She felt totally incompetent. Jesus, maybe she was just a
talent scout. Obviously there was more to running even a
small company than that and she wasn't sure she had what it
took.

'The money I've been allocated so far was for leasing
space, hiring an assistant, basic overheads... I don't get
any more until there's a solid financial plan with sales
projections.'

'You should have completed that by now, Rowena.'
She was silent.

'I might have known it wouldn't be a social call. OK,'


203

Gordon, I'll see what I can do.'

Her boss sighed; she could hear the faint scratching of his
pen, making notes.

'Hans Bauer hated giving you this job in the first place,
you know. He'll really love me for insisting on an
emergency A&R budget for you.'

'If we want Velocity, we've got to move,' she said. 'They
won't stay secret for ever.'

'Goddamnit, I'll go as fast as I can!' Oberman growled.
'Just make sure you don't lose the act. I don't want you
making a fool of me.'

'I'll get them,' Rowena promised him. 'You just get me a
budget.'

He grunted. 'By the way, I saw a tape of the Oprah show.
Pretty funny. Did you put him up to that?'

'No, it was a surprise,' Rowena answered, smiling a little.
She'd enjoyed Joe doing that for her. Topaz could see where
her pathetic attempts at revenge would get her. From what
little she knew about journalism, that would have caused
her some embarrassment. Good. Pushy bitch, the English
girl thought, glad to have someone she could openly dislike.

0'Has that girl been causing you problems?' Oberman
asked.

Rowena drew herself up a little in the shabby room.
Embattled, ignored and struggling in Manhattan, her sense
of class superiority came right back to her.

'She's nothing. Topaz Rossi is the least of my problems,'
she said with contempt.


Nathan Rosen thrust again, savotring Topaz's low moans.
His hands moved gently over her swollen nipples, and he
lapped at them softly with his tongue, tugging them and
pulling them into full erection. Her hands were all over him,
stroking, clutching, sometimes reaching under him to trail
her fingers gently over his balls, in that way that drove him
crazy. He refused to be hurried, and for once she wasn't
rushing him. They both enjoyed slow, bridge-building sex
like this that lasted for hours and ended in long-dra.wn-out


204

orgasms as relaxing as a scented bath. This was Nathan's
pace, not Topaz's. But she was happy to give in to him
tonight.

Topaz moved under her partner, her supple body keeping
pace with his rhythm. She smiled into his eyes, feeling
tenderness, mild arousal and the relaxation of tension. She
hadn't wanted to lose Nate. He was her family, and family
was important. He was the first person truly to care for her
and not just lust after her. That was worth a little sexual
incompatibility. She kissed his shoulder, remembering
yesterday, when flowers from Mellenick's, chocolates from
Godiva and vintage champagne had all been delivered to the
house and they'd made love on the kitchen floor to
celebrate.

'I love you, Topaz,' Nathan gasped, feeling his whole
body bathed in a pre-orgasm sweat. He glanced down at her
superb breasts, pressed hard against him. 'Oh, God, I love
you. I low, you,' and she murmured, 'I love you too,'
knowing that he was coming, nowhere near climax herself,
but wanting him to come, wanting him to be pleased,
wanting him to love her.

'Ohhhh,' Rosen groaned, erupting inside her with a surge
of white-hot bliss. Topaz put her arms round him, holding
him to her, kissing the handsome line of his jaw, until he
eventually, reluctantly, pulled out of her. He rolled offher
and lay in the bed next to her, feeling like a young lion.

She was so giving, so generous in bed. Compared with
Marissa's tight-assed sufferance of his pleasure, Topaz was
Mother Earth and Venus rolled into one.

Her only fault is to want too much of me, Rosen told
himself; with a flash of vanity. The idea pleased him. Put
like that, her overdemanding attitude to" sex - as he saw it -
wasn't so bad after all.

'Will you marry me?' Rosen asked suddenly.

'Do you want to?' Topaz asked, surprised, propping
herself up on one elbow to look at him. Her red hair
tumbled down her back and her breasts thrust themselves
towards his face. Incredibly, Nathan sensed the renewed'


2O5

stirrings of desire.

He suppressed his misgivings. 'Yes I do,' he said.
'Absolutely.'

Topaz felt her eyes fill with tears. She'd never expected
him to ask her so soon; to have a successful career, be a wife
with a loving husband, maybe even a mother - it was
exactly what she'd dreamt of.

Now all she had to do was to find some way of dealing
with the two things that still bothered her. Joe Goldstein,
her newest rival, still with one more magazine than she had
and still determined to block her career at American
Magazines. And Rowena Gordon.

Maybe her recent humiliation had been her own fault, but
then she'd been Careless. And unsubtle. Flinging insults at a

band that were already on their way was futile, as well as
' obvious. No, she wanted to really do Rowena some harm.

Topaz had done a fair amount of research on her situation at
Musica and she knew that it wasn't as secure as it looked.
She also knew that Rowena was having trouble signing a
band. And that Atomic Mass were getting pretty wild on
tour. There had to be some possibilities there. Topaz didn't
want Rowena to just fail to make it and go home-she had to help her to fail. Yeah, sure, she knew nice girls didn't pursue

revenge. They forgave and forgot.

Fuck that. She betrayed me.

Topaz smiled at Nathan, putting Rowena from her mind.
'The answer is yes,' she whispered, and kissed him.

206


Chapter Eighteen


'Married?' demanded Joe Goldstein. He pushed back his
chair and stood up, black eyes luminous with anger.
'Married? To Topaz Rossi?'

'Who else?' Nathan replied coolly. He hadn't expected
this reaction from Joe. American Scientist, Week in Review and Executive Officer were all flourishing now that Goldstein
had moved to New York, and he had taken good care to see
that Topaz was never unduly favoured over Joe. Goldstein
was still fa-eourite to succeed Nathan to the board. He
thought he'd made that clear.

'Is that what she wants?'Joe asked. He was struggling to
contain himself, so great was the rage sweeping through
him. Topaz Rossi marrying Nathan Rosen? It was all wrong,
totally wrong. His old mentor was thinking with his dick
and Rossi wasjust a stupid child. Either that or climbing the
ladder horizontally.

'I guess so,' Rosen answered.

'Well, I hope you'll be happy,' Goldstein said shortly.

'Thank you,' Nathan Ro'sen said, looking at his protdgd
with a new wariness.


'Married! Now you tell me!' Gino Rbssi sa.id, his disapproval
echoing down the phone. 'Is he Catholic?'

Amazing, thought Topaz, how much this still hurt. She
called her father for the first time in years, to tell him she was
getting married, and all he could say was 'Is he Catholic?'
No 'How are you, where have you been?' Even fury would
have been preferable to this total lack of interest in her life anger
would have meant he gave a damn.


207

'No, Poppa, he'sJewish,' she replied.

'A Jew! My daughter is marrying a fucking Jew? How did

we bring you up, for you to be - '

Topaz slammed the phone down, feeling the shame and
rejection all over again.

Thank God I got away from them, she told herself
fiercely, determined to ignore the dull ache in her heart.
Nate Rosen was marrying her and he hadn't seen anything
to despise. She glanced at her reflection in the door of her
office: a pretty blue dress, elegant shoes, ethnic bangles.

Good enough for Nathan, good enough for anybody.

Her assistant buzzed her. 'It's John Aitken.'

'Show him in,' Topaz ordered, her mind switching gears.

If John had come through the way she hoped, the scores
would be settled and there'd be one less thing on her mind.

' 'Well?' she asked, as the journalist walked into her office.
His Rage Against the Machine T-shirt was crumpled and his
eyes were bloodshot, as though he'd been up all night.

'I've got something,' Aitken said, handing her a sheaf of
dirty notes.

Topaz tore through them, her mind racing. When she'd
finished, she looked up at him with an expression of pure
triumph. 'Can we run with this now?' she asked.

'There's a launch party for the album in a fortnight, at
Madison Square Gardens, ' John told her. 'If I were you I'd
wait. This is a real killer.'


Topaz thought about it. Maybe she could wait. This would
be the second punch in a one-two jab at Rowena that would
put an end to her unfinished busiiess with that woman.

She'd had the first real break yesterday night.


'Can you see what I'm getting at?' Tiz Correy had yelled in

her ear.

Tiz was setting up the October issue, and Wanted her boss

to come with her and check out a scene- the new industrial
music in New York, epitomized by bands like Cop Shoot
Cop, which was attracting a new wave of young, p!ssed-off


208

female punks, art students and assorted misfits. Topaz had
vetoed the idea at once. She didn't think that was what Girlfriend readers were looking for - more like lipstick,
fashion and Beverly Hills 9oeIo.

'It will made a great feature,' her staffer repeated angrily.
'You should trust me, Topaz. I haven't been wrong before.
All you think about these days is impressing the guys over at Economic.'

Topaz flinched. 'That's not fair.'

'It is. OK, look: you come check out one of the bands,
they're playing CBGB's tonight, have a look at what I'm
talking about for yourself. If you want to kill the story after
that, fair enough. Is it a deal?'

Topaz, trapped, nodded. 'What's the band?'

'Hot new group, no record deal. They're called Velocity.'
'Never heard of them.'
'You will.'


'Can you see what I'm getting at?' Tiz yelled in her ear.
'These girls are wild! We run something like, "She's a
Rebel" and a few shots of this mayhem crowd stuff, a list of
the bands, a picture of Axl Rose...'

'I like pictures of Axl Rose,' Topaz yelled back, knowing
what was indisputably good for circulation. 'OK, Tiz, it's
your call. Run whatever you want.'

She gestured at the stage, where Velocity's female bassist
was hammering out a blitzkrieg run. 'Is this stuffpopular?'

'What, are you kidding me? This band is the edge of the
cutting-edge.'

'You were always the rock fan,' Topaz shrugged.

To her, it sounded like meaningless white noise designed
to make the ears bleed. But that was why he'd given Tiz her
head on the article. Tiz Correy was only twenty; she could
remember what it was like to be fifteen. Topaz, on the other
hand, was twenty-four and starting to forget; and anyway,
even at fifteen, she would never have gone for this.

'The rumours about them are hot,' Tiz enthused.

'Really?' Topaz enquired politely, not giving a damn. "


2O9

She'd paid her dues, now she wanted to go home. Yes, the
girls in the audience would take some interesting pictures.
Yes, it might make a good feature. Enough! Do I have to
endure the whole show? she wondered.

'Oh yeah. The guy behind the bar told me your Rowena
Gordon was here last week. She's been to see them a few
times now, and he noticed her talking to the manager last
time she was here.'

Topaz turned to face her, slowly.

'Are you telling me Rowena Gordon wants to offer this
band a record deal?'

'Does it matter?' Tiz asked, surprised at her boss's sudden
intensity. 'Sure, I think she does. Like I told you, they're
cutting-edge, real new and hot. I expect she wants to get

them for Musica before that situation changes.'

'Can she do that?'

'I don't know, I'm not a record company executive. I
guess so. Wasn't that how she got Atomic Mass, signing
them up before word got out?'

'Tiz, you're a genius!' Topaz exclaimed.

'What? Are we doing a profile on Rowena Gordon?' Tiz
asked, thoroughly confused. 'I thought you didn't like her.
The female anarchy thing will make a better piece.'

Her boss ignored her. 'Will the manager be here tonight?'
'Probably. Do you want an introduction?'

'Yeah,' Topaz said, grinning. 'We can't have a cutting
edge band like Velocity snapped up for next to nothing, can

we?'

She smiled at Tiz. 'You like the band, right? If I arrange
for you to write a large guest feature in White Light, do you
want to introduce them to Manhattan?'

'Of course!' said her features editor, excited. 'If I do it
tonight, we could make their Thursday edition.'

She looked back at the stage. 'I could start a bidding war
for these guys!'

'Exactly,' said Topaz.


'So did you get the tape?' Rowena asked Michael.


210

'Yeah,' he said. 'I got it this morning. I didn't get a chance
to listen to it yet.'

'Well, hurry up,' she said. 'I want to know what you
think.'

'What if I hate them?'
Tm signing them anyway,' Rowena said firmly, 'because
I think they kill. A bloke called Andrew Snelling manages
them; he's a sharp guy, very good with money. We're
exchanging contracts on Friday.'

'How did you come up with a budget?'

'I got Josh to wring some emergency funds out of the
board.'

Krebs laughed. 'You must be everyone's favourite little
girl.'

'Hey,' she said defiantly, TII sign the act, they'll be a
flagship band for this subsidiary, and Holland will stop
concerning themselves with my ability.'

'Babe, yoga have nothing to prove to me... I'm sure
you'll sign them, if you want them.'

'Of course I'll sign them,' she said. 'No one else has even
heard of them.'


Joe Goldstein sat in his office at American Scientist, seemingly
staring into space.

From time to time his secretary looked through the blinds, but knew better than to disturb him; when
Mr Goldstein closed his door and stared at the air like that, it
would take Wall Street crashing Or a new cure for cancer to
rouse him.

Joe was deep in thought. His office was situated high up
in the building, and the gleaming skyscrapers of Seventh
Avenue towered everywhere outside the hree glass walls of
the room, but he was impervious to urban beauty today.
Today he was wondering about his future. He had made a
grave error ofjudgment-underestimating a rival-and had,
he felt, been humiliated in front of the entire company by
failing to add Economic Monthly to his portfolio of business
titles. Possibly for the first time in his life he was discovering

2II


what it felt like to fail. It was not an experience he wanted to

repeat.

The worst thing, though, was that Nathan Rosen had

voted for Topaz. That was something he just could not

understand. It was Nate, after all, who'd brought him into
	.'!

the company in the first place, become his close friend, and

eventually acted as his mentor. It was also Nathan who had

engineered his transfer to New York, and considering that

Rosen had become the director for the East Coast, he'd kind

of counted on his vote.

In fact, forget 'kind of'.

And yet, and yet, and yet, Goldstein mused. Topaz had

performed quite brilliantly. He remembered as if it had been

yesterday the way his heart had sunk as he'd listened to her

pitch, and if he was honest, he might have voted for her too.

But now Topaz was going to marry Nathan.

He couldn't work out why this annoyed him so much,

but he'd found it hard even to be civil to Nathan this

morning. In fact, since he'd found out when he first got here

that the two of them were dating, Joe had seen his long

standing friendship with Nathan go down the tubes. And

when they'd moved in together, a week before the Economic

Monthly pitch, it had disappeared completely. He started

turning down all Nathan's invitations to drinks or baseball

games. He went with buddies from his own titles or he

picked up women for company.

And he worked. He worked his balls off. For all Topaz

Rossi's flamboyance, Joe Goldstein still edited one more

magazine than she did and he still submitted business

memos to the board. She wasn't the only one who could

push up circulation. American Scientist and Week in Review

had both posted record figures this month.

Joe knew he'd made a fundamental error with his pitch. It

was readers and revenue that counted, not content- content

of a magazine was the means, not the end. It was the bait.

Topaz had demonstrated that and it was a lesson Joe was

determined not to need twice.

The next time they set a title up, Goldstein thought

212


darkly, there won't even be an open pitch.

His mind strayed back to Topaz Rossi. No male rival had
ever got him going like this, but then no male rival had ever
looked like that girl. Maybe that was it. It just didn't sit well
with him to see an attractive woman so goddamn obsessed
with the nine-to-five. Or the eight-to-ten, in her case. He'd
heard that outside the office Nathan and she didn't have
much of a life.

Not for one second did it occur to Joe that the same thing
was said about him.

He flicked through yesterday's Westside, noting the article
on some odious-looking band called Velocity - distinctly not Goldstein's speed. ' When he wanted to hear music he
generally headed for the Lincoln Center. There was a pullout
quote by the writer, Tiz Correy, pointing out that
Rowena Gordon, the girl behind Atomic Mass, was
looking to sign them up.

Joe recognized a clarion call to every other player when he
saw one. He wondered if Gordon had them inked on the
dotted line yet, because if not, she didn't stand a prayer
now. Assuming it was true, and she was interested in the
first place. But he was inclined to believe it.

He scanned the article again. There was no mention of
Topaz Rossi anywhere in it.

Joe smiled grimly. As if that mattered.


Nathan Rosen walked up the steps to his house at half-six,
carrying a small package from Cartier. It was a cool
evening, a light breeze rustling the tops of the trees in his
street. You could almost Call it quiet.

Topaz was waiting for him in tlie kitchen. There was a
silver candlestick on the table, and the soft light from its
flame was the only illumination in the room. Dinner for two
was set with their best porcelain, a bottle of his favourite
Perrier-Jouet champagne chilling in an ice bucket and small
heaps of caviar glinting on their plates as starter. She'd
served it just the way he liked it: neat, no messing around
with. chopped egg or blinis. Perlman was playing Beet- "


213

hoven's Violin Concerto gently on the stereo.

Rosen stopped at the door, struck with the perfection of
the moment.

His fiancee was wearing a muted, floating full-length
gown in dusty blue chiffon, which flowed round her curves
like cream. Her hair was pinned up in a formal style, swept
back and secured with a tortoiseshell comb. She had no

jewellery, nothing to spoil the line.

She took his breath away.

'I brought you something,' Rosen said, walking up to her
and handing her the box.

She opened it, smiling at him. Inside was an engagement
ring, a cluster of sapphires exquisitely set on a band of white
gold.

'I love you,' Topaz told him, kissing his cheek, then his
mouth. There were tears in her eyes as he slid the ring on to
her finger.

'Are you sure you want to do this?' Rosen asked her. 'Be
with me, I mean? Even though I'm so sedate, so laid-back?
Are you sure I'm not too slow for you?'

She shook her head and kissed him again. 'Things are
,going to be different now,' she told him. 'I'm going to
relax. Be less uptight.'

'You?' he repeated, smiling. 'Why?'

Topaz pictured the look on Rowena's face when she
found out. The first blow would be bad. The second would
finish her off.

They were quits.

She could forget about Rowena, and get on with her life.
'Just because,' she said.


'No, it's OK, Andrew,' Rowena said, 'I understand.
Business is business.'

Her knuckles were white with fury, gripping the phone.
'I'm afraid not,' she replied. 'I called my chairman
already. We can't match that kind of money. No, I have no
hard feelings. 55o Music is a great label, you'll do fine, and I
wish you well.'


214

It was true. She didn't blame the manager, not for a
second. It was his job to get the best deal for the act and she

knew she'd have done exactly the same thing.

'I should have moved faster,' she said.

Rowena replaced the receiver and stared towards Seventh

Avenue. Topaz Rossi was in one of those buildings.

The phone went again. 'Gordon,' she said.
'Would you care to explain to me what the fucking hell is
going on?' snapped Josh Oberman.

215


Chapter Nineteen


'I guess that's everything,'John Aitken said.

'Thanks,' his editor told him. 'Richard Gibson's real
pleased with the story, John. There'll be a rise for you in
this.'

'I hope so,' he replied with feeling.

'Fax me the final draft at home, could you?' she asked. 'I

want to see it as soon as it's done.' Her long fingers were

absentmindedly rolling a tennis ball round on her desk.

'OK,' he said, ringing off.

Topaz surveyed her empty office.

'Bullseye!' she said.


.It was autumn in Manhattan, and Rowena was still surviving.
Just. After the Velocity fiasco, only one thing had saved
her from recall to London; Barbara Lincoln and Michael
Krebs had both insisted she stay and be put in charge of the
album launch for Heat Street. It might be a Warners record
for North America, but it belonged to Musica for the rest of
the world, as Krebs pointed out to Oberman.

'She needs to find a band, Michael,'Josh told him.

'I know,' Krebs said. 'She will.'

A week later, Rowena found Obsession, a talented rap act

from Brooklyn, and signed them, very quietly.

After the deal was done, she sent a tennis ball over to
American Magazines, for the attention of Ms Topaz Rossi,
with a note attached: 'Thirty-fifteen.'


'I'm impressed!' Barbara said.

'So you should be,' said Rowena.


216

Josh Oberman didn't say anything, as he was calculating
the exchange rate of dollars to pounds and wondering if this
would get him promoted. One more album like this, and
they'd make him President for Life.

'Hi, this is Alex Isseult on MTV News,' said the stunning
brunette on the limousine TV, smiling at them engagingly.
'Britain's newest supergroup Atomic Mass are rumoured to
be planning a huge launch party for their debut album, Heat
Street, at Madison Square Gardens in New York. A
spokeswoman for Musica Records admitted that they were
waiting for a go-ahead from city authorities. Atomic Mass,
currently enjoying their second number one single with
"Trapped", will be issuing free invitations at dates on their
sold-out US tour, which follows earlier supports to the
mighty Guns n' Roses.'

She paused to give them another dazzling smile.

'Heat Street will receive its first-ever playback at the
stadium, arid fans attending will also he issued with
vouchers entitling them to a discount when they buy the
album . . .'

'Can I believe my ears?' asked Oberman in theatrical
disgust as the car glided past a huge billboard proclaiming
THE ATOMIC AGE BEGINS 2 NOVEMBER 'You
can't do that.'

'Why can't I?' asked his Managing Director defensively.

'Because it's a carbon copy of what Burnstein and
Mensch did to launch Metallica's last record.'

'So?' said Barbara impudently. Tve always believed in
learning from the masters.'

'Look, Lincoln,' began Oberman, who'd gone pale,
'you- '

'Calm down, Josh, I asked for permission,' Rowena said
soothingly.

The old man visibly relaxed.

'Mensch said, if I wanted to be totally fucking unoriginal
it was fine by him.'

'Metallica didn't sell twenty trillion copies because they
threw a launch party at Madison Square Gardens,' Barbara "


217

pointed out. 'It sold twenty trillion because it was a
phenomenal album.'

'Absolutely,' said Josh and Rowena in unison.

'We've done two million in firm pre-sales, Josh,' said
Rowena. 'Firm, not shipped. I have point-of-sale in stores
across the country and two independent promoters on the
album. I have radio promos and competitions in four key
markets for November. We're taking print ads, radio ads,
MTV ads..., marketing spend is huge.., the whole thing is huge. It has to launch in style, and that was still the
best idea anyone ever had . . .'

'OK, OK,' said Josh, throwing his hands in the air. 'Do
what you like.'

'This album will sell itself,' Barbara insisted.

'Fine. We'll cancel the marketing budget,' grinned
Rowena as Barbara glared at her.


Rowena had Press type up a list of the international TV and
radio stations and magazines that were being flown in for
the Heat Street launch and faxed it to the Musica affiliates
around the world. It was four pages long, excluding
,American media. She copied Michael on it; he called her
back almost immediately.

'I want you to know that I'm proud of you,' he said. 'You
really did good here, Rowena.'

'Thank you,' she replied, suffused with pleasure.

'I really mean it,' Krebs insisted. 'You're one of the best
I've ever seen.'

'They wouldn't have happened without you:'
'Sure they would. Maybe not so big,' he conceded.
There was silence for a moment.

'I want to be with you,' Krebs said gently. 'Can I come
round tomorrow?'

'I would love that,' said Rowena.

She stared at the phone for a few seconds, luxuriating in
happiness. For these infinitely rare moments of tenderness
and affection she lived and died. She loved him so hard, so
fiercely,, perfectly aware he didn't love her back. He had

never pretended to. She ought to leave him. God only knew
she'd tried.

The first time had been a big deal, maybe because
Rowena assumed Krebs would respect her wishes. They'd
been together in Dublin, checking out a new band, and after
some of the hottest sex she could remember he'd started
talking about his wife. Feeling his insensitivity like a kick to

the stomach, Rowena stood there and told him it was over.
'We'll talk about it in the morning.'
'No we won't,' Rowena said, her voice thick with the
pain gathering at the back of her throat. 'I never want to see
you again.'

'Never?' Krebs asked, propping himself up in bed on one
elbow.

Rowena felt as if some sadist was performing open-heart
surgery on her without an anaesthetic.

'Never!' she managed, tears trickling down her cheeks.
'Come ba,k here,' Krebs said, but she ran away from
him, barely reaching her own room before collapsing on to
the bed. It was anguish,, it was torture. For all he was a
sonofabitch, the thought of never being with Michael again
was sheer agony. She had to sit on her hands to stop herself
calling his room and telling him she'd changed her mind.
She sobbed for three hours, and cried herself to sleep.

In the morning, she got up early and checked out. The
stewardess on board the Aer Lingus flight asked her if she
was feeling ill. Rowena said no and refused all food and
drink. She thought about Mi.chael Krebs every second of the
five-hour flight home.

She'd lasted a week and lost half a stone, hardly eating,
hardly sleeping. Getting through each day was like running
a marathon. Krebs was her first thought in the morning, her
last thought at night. After three days, relentless sexual

longing started to mix with the misery.

And then he'd called.

'This has gone on long enough. You can't still be mad at
me,' Michael said.

Rowena was dumbstruck. 'You think this is funny?'


219

'Absolutely,' Krebs said firmly. 'I'm just gonna laugh at
you, Rowena. All this angst...'

'Angst?' she spluttered. 'I hate you!'

'You hate me now?'

'Yeah,' she said sullenly, trying to ignore the flood of
limitless joy that had surged through her at the sound of his
voice.
'And you're never gonna sleep with me again?'

No I m not.

'That's a shame,' Krebs said softly.

Lust swept a long, lazy, feathery caress right across her
body.

'Is it OK if! reminisce, then? Because I have to tell you,

I've been thinking about it . . .'
'No . . .'

'About Sweden. Remember that? I enjoyed that,
Rowena.'

Sweden. Christ. He'd grabbed her by the nape of the neck
and shoved her, belly down, across the desk in the hotel
room. The lamp and all his papers had gone crashing to the

floor. She'd come so many times that night she'd lost count.
'Shut up, Michael.. '

'How did my cock feel, Rowena? Do you remember that?

Sliding into you? You were so hot it wasn't even funny.'
She stifled a gasp. 'Fucking shut up, Michael . . .'
'You're gonna have to hang up on me.'

'I can't hang up on you. You know that...'

'If I was there now, we wouldn't be talking. I don't
know, I might start with your breasts this time. I keep
thinking about your nipples. They're so sharp when you're
turned on... You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to lick
them for a couple of minutes and then put a hand in between

your legs. Then you could tell me how much you hate me.' 'No.'

'Yes. Yes. You know, baby. You could tell me how you
couldn't stand me while I was stroking you. I'd be real
gentle, you wouldn't even know I was there. Probably
wouldn't notice me lifting you up and pulling you down on


220

my cock. I'd fuck you very, very slowly. Deep thrusts.
Give you time to say whatever you've got on your mind.
How about that? I mean, you hate me, right? Having me
fuck you right in front of a mirror so you could watch it

going in, that wouldn't make any difference . . .'
'Michael!'

'Don't tell me you like that idea.'

'Stop this.' Her stomach was contracted. Her whole body
was shaking with desire.

'No. I won't. Because I know what's happening to you.'
She couldn't speak.

Tll be there in five minutes,' Krebs said firmly, hanging
up.

Rowena had never forgotten it. By the time he arrived,
she was so racked with lust she couldn't stand up. When
Krebs walked through the door and saw what he'd done to
her, he pushed her up against the wall and took her where
she stood, jtst unsnapping her jeans and shoving into her.

She'd tried to walk five or six times after that. But
Michael wouldn't hear of it, and his sexual hold over her
was absolute.


The American Magazines tower was buzzing. Gowers and
the rest of the board had called an emergency editorial
meeting.

'Are you sure we can run with this?' Jason Richman
demanded.

Tm sure. Our lawyers have gone through it with two
fine-tooth combs,' Topaz assured him

'How are you spreading it?' Joe Goldstein. Cold and
businesslike.

'Over three issues initially. Maybe m6re to come, we're
still digging.'

'Why don't you wait for the whole thing?'

She glared at him. Every damn meeting the guy tries to
crucify me, she thought.

'Because I don't feel we can sit on this for even a day. It'll
be leaked.'

22I


'I agree completely,' Nathan snapped. Goldstein must be
out of his mind. The story was so hot you could fry eggs on
it.

'They're right,' Matt Gowers said, with an air of finality.
Goldstein flushed slightly. Gowers added, 'We'll need a
bigger print-run for the third and second issue.'

He turned to the meeting. 'It only remains for me to
congratulate Topaz Rossi. You all know that most of the
time American Magazines is in the business of great
features, not breaking news, so it' good to see that we can
handle that properly too, when the need arises. You also
know that White Light has been lagging in the music press
market. I think this could be the solution. So Topaz, well
done indeed.'

The meeting broke into applause, although she noticed
angrily that Joe Goldsteinjust shuffled his notes instead. As
everyone left to get back to their offices, she grabbed him by
the arm.

'What?' he snapped, shaking her offwith an expression of
distaste.

'Look, Joe,' she said patiently, 'I know we've had our
differences but - '

He cut her off. 'Oh, spare me the "can't we be friends"
spiel,' he said coldly. 'We work for the same company.
That's about the extent of it. Now if you'll excuse me - '

'What's your problem?' shouted Topaz, losing her
temper.

He seemed to consider whether or not to reply. Then,
regarding her, he said, 'The fact is, I don't have any respect
for people who fuck their way th the top.'

As she stiffened in shock, he turned and walked out.


Nathan was cooking supper when she got home.

Topaz relaxed against the doorway and enjoyed the sight
of him, carefully and methodically fiddling with the pan.
He'd even put an apron on. How sweet, just like him. She
could see it now: no applesauce is going to get the better of
Nathan Rosent.

222


He was barechested, apa.rt from the apron, just cooking in
jeans. That did something to her, the sight of his broad
back, the muscles shifting under the skin as he moved.
Topaz looked appreciatively over his tight, lean ass. Lust
began to tug at her, mingling with the overwhelming
sensations of triumph she'd been feeling all day. She padded
up behind him and slid her hands round his waist, kissing
his shoulderblades, and then started to brush his crotch
through the denim.

'Hey, cut it out,' he said. 'This has reached a delicate
stage.'

Topaz ignored him and silently slipped out of her shirt
and bra. She began to brush across his spine with her
nipples.

He groaned, immediately becoming erect beneath her
hands.

Topaz started to unbutton his fly and rubbed him gently
through the ilk of his boxers. He moved with her, trying to
press himself against her hands. She tickled and stroked him
lightly for a minute or so, and when she felt him thickening
and distending under her touch smartly withdrew and
backed towards the kitchen table. Then she unhooked her
skirt and slowly wriggled out of her panties, starting to
touch herself.

'Topaz,' Rosen breathed, his hard-on chafing against his
pants. He wanted to be where her fingers were. To come
where her fingers were. But he sensed she wanted something else first and he came towards her, ripping offhisjeans
to free his swollen cock, and dropped to his knees, burying
his face in the tiny, wiry red hairs of her pussy, hearing her
groan.

Nathan started to kiss her softly, marx;elling at how wet
she was, and when he felt her thighs relax slightly, he began

to lick her, slow, sure strokes, aiming to please.

Oh God, thought Topaz.

She reached down and moved his head, arrogantly
guiding him for her pleasure. When she thought she could
sense orgasm, she grabbed his wrists and pinioned his arms '

223


behind his head, kissing him.

Nathan shivered with desire, watching this beautiful
young girl astride him, her magnificent breasts swaying just
out of reach, her soft mouth suddenly determined and
lustful, crashing down on his.

Christ, what was she doing now . . .

Topaz had loosened her ponytail and was brushing his
cock with her hair, in long, sweeping caresses, stroking him
with a million feathery touches. He felt desire and surprise
rip through him. Then she grabbed him with her right hand
and positioned herself, slick and open, above him.

'Do you want it? Tell me how much you want it,' she
whispered.

He stared up at her, aroused and amused.

'Or I guess I could just leave you here,' she teased. "
'No! I want it, OK. Just fuck me, damn it,' Rosen gasped,
and Topaz smiled and lowered herself on to his straining
cock and flung her head back, her body arching, and he
exploded inside her a second later.

She collapsed against him, panting.

'What was that all about?' Nathan murmured, stroking
,her hair.

Topaz smiled and kissed him.

'I think you burnt the applesauce,' she said.


Rowena stretched comfortably in bed and flicked on MTV.
The morning sun streamed through the windows.

'This is Alex Isseult with MTV News,' said the TV
excitedly. Rowena waved at her lazily, registering her
constant little thrill of pleasure at seeing the Atomic Mass
logo on MTV.

'British supergroup Atomic Mass look certain to run into
trouble this morning, as the current issue of White Light magazine, which hit the stands last night, reveals that two of
the band members have previously undisclosed criminal
records, including possession of drugs.'

' What?' Rowena screamed, sitting bolt upright.

'MTV News can exclusively confirm that New York


224

authorities have already issued a statement banning the
group from holding its planned launch party at Madison
Square Gardens. The move is sure to cost Musica Records
hundreds of thousands of dollars in wasted air fares and
promotional costs. However, that may be the least of their
problems: spokesmen for the DEA and the Justice Department
have already said that they are actively considering
deporting the band if the allegations are proven, meaning

the cancellation of a sell-out tour and huge costs . . .'

' What?' she screamed again.

Downstairs, insistently, the phone began to ring.

225


Chapter Twenty


'How could you do this to me? I must have been insane to
give you this label! Didn't you anticipate the press would

dig around an act of this size?'

'Josh, I - '

'No!' he screamed. 'Don't give me excuses! I have
Holland on the phone every five minutes! Our goddamned
fax is jamming because the worldwide MDs are having a
mass panic!'

Rowena passed her hand across her forehead, cursing
technology. Oberman might be three thousand miles away
but he sounded like he was in the next room.

'Gordon, this is not a game!'


	'I know that, Josh, I - '

'You report to me, I look like a fool. And I can tell you

right now that Hans Bauer wants you recalled.'

She went pale.

'I can't cover your ass for ever. If it ever happens again,

you're through. This is a fucking fiasco.'
'Understood,' said Rowena faintly.
Oberman slammed the phone down.


It was the last call in a long, long day, most of which had
been spent in trying, fruitlessly, to get hold of the band and
repeating 'The allegations are being investigated. We have

no further comment at this time,' over and over again.

She was totally shattered.

When Michael rang the apartment doorbell at nine, she
was in floods of tears.

'I'm sorry,' she said, mortified. 'I forgot you were


226

coming over- let me wash my face . . .'

'Ssh,' Krebs said, kissing her gently. 'It's OK, you go
ahead and cry. I think it's kind of cute, actually, the great
Rowena Gordon showing weakness.'

She fled to the bathroom and doused herself in cold water,
blew her nose and slapped on some foundation. Amazing,
pathetic really, how even in this state She couldn't bear him
to see her looking less than beautiful.

'Get out here, Rowena,' Michael called.

She went back out to him, embarrassed by her appearance,
her spectacular failure, forgetting he was coming
over, everything. Also, the familiar sensation of desire was
starting to crawl over her. Merely to be in the same room as
him was usually enough.

He came towards her, sensing the shift in her mood
immediately. His kiss this time was less consoling, harder,
sexual. 'What shall I do with you this evening?' he said. 'I
was going o take you out to dinner somewhere discreet, to

celebrate, but I guess that's inappropriate now.'

She nodded mutely.

'Take off your shirt,' he said. 'I want to play with your
breasts while I'm thinking about it.'

He started to lightly caress her, discussing various
different positions he might take her in in a calm, detached
tone of voice, as if talking to himself.

After two minutes she broke down, gasping.

'Can't hold it?' Michael asked, smiling. 'God, you're
really out of control today, Rowena, aren't you? I didn't
even touch you between your legs yet.'

She started to unbutton his jeans, freeing his erection. He
was red and swollen, and she wondered again how he
managed to master his arousal so completely when she
couldn't hide hers for a second. Krebs could often go from
erection to ejaculation without making a singl sound.

He spun her round so she was facing the wall, tugged
down her skirt and panties and entered her, moving in
aggressive, rhythmic strokes. As she shut her eyes in ecstasy he ran one hand across her groin, the other tracing a firm

227


line up and down her spine possessively. She choked out his
name as she came.

Michael tightened his grip on her shoulders and
climaxed.

He held her firmly for a few seconds,just to make a point,

and then kissed her affectionately. 'Always the best cure for
stress,' he said.

She smiled ruefully. 'My problems are still there,
though.'

'Come shower with me,' Krebs said. 'You have no
problems. Let me explain something to you, Rowena:
you're a friend of mine, and so are the band. When some
little writer fucks with you, and fucks with Atomic Mass,
they fuck with me.'

She glanced at him.

'Nothing has been proved, and nothing will be. There are other stadiums in America, and you should also bear in
mind,' he added with heavy sarcasm, 'that I have produced
for a few other companies besides Musica Records. I have a
lot of favours coming to me.'

He paused. 'Do you know who's responsible for this?'


	'I think so,' said Rowena.

'Good. Because you and I are going to talk to the press in a

language which they'll understand, believe me.'

'Michael!' said Rowena.

She was excited now. She believed he was going to get

her out of this. Gratitude and relief and the giddy prospect
of revenge surged through her; and then admiration; and
then a slow, deep wave of almost violent desire.

He watched her redden. 'You can consider this a continuation
of your education,' he said. God, how hot he
could get her. She was the most passionate girl he'd ever
seen in his life. He felt his erection returning.

'Come here and pay me for it,' he said.


The next day she was her old self. There was something
great about dealing with a crisis of this size; Rowena kicked
into action, pouncing on phones, yelling at repo.rters and


228

Freddy deMann, Doug Goldstein and Warren Entner, and
Madonna, Guns n' Roses and Faith No More all cancelled
exclusive interviews with White Light. Historically, artists
are not fond of people or publications that smear other
artists.

Michael was enjoying himself. 'It's just something for
them to think about,' he said. 'Wait till I find Paul
McGuinness. Then they can forget their U2 Christmas
issue, as well.'

Rowena's secretary stuck her head round the door. 'Sorry
to interrupt,' she said, 'but I've got Barbara Lincoln on line
one. '

'Put her through!' said Rowena. 'On the speakerphone!'
'Why the luck haven't you called?' Krebs demanded.

'We had the phones disconnected while I talked to the
band,' Barlara explained. 'Sorry, you guys.'

'Sorry!' Rowena exploded, furious. 'Do you have any idea

what it's been like in New York? Christ, Barbara - '
'Look, most of it's not true - '

'Why don't you just tell me what's true and what isn't,'
Krebs said calmly.

'I want to speak to the band,' Rowena demanded, still
furious.

'Hey, this is me, Rowena!' Barbara protested. The, your
best friend, remember? Now take a deep breath, and listen
to this.'


'I don't understand it.' "

Richard Gibson, White Light's editor, was presenting to
the editois' meeting.

'I mean I really do not get this. The Atomic Mass issue
quadrupled our circulation, I have extra print-runs for the
next three issues. I mean these magazines arc just flying out
of the stores and everybody knows it.'

'So what's the problem?' Nathan asked.

'I can't sell advertising space. I mean not at all. Musica

229


Records pulled their ads, OK, this I understand. But now
Geffen is pulling, Mercury is pulling, Epic pulled a whole
page ad for Screaming Trees this morning. Said they

decided to run it in Spin magazine instead.'

'Anything else?' asked Topaz.

'Yeah. All our cover stories are cancelling interviews.'
'Like who?'Joe Goldstein asked, making notes.

'Ever heard of U2?' Richard replied, with the withering
sarcasm music journalists reserve for money men. 'Suddenly
they can no longer fit us into their press schedule.

Bang goes my Christmas double issue.'

'Madonna?' Topaz probed gently.

'Gone. Out of here,' Gibson snapped. 'I mean, this is insane. I have a music magazine which, right now, has triple
the circulation of Rolling Stone, and I can't get an interview
or sell an ad.'

Joe Goldstein shot a baleful look at Topaz. 'Richard, my
friend,' he said, 'they're going to shut you down.'

Gibson considered it. 'No,' he said. 'It did cross my
mind, OK. But the record business is highly competitive.
Why would Geffen care ifMusica screws up?'


	'It's Rowena Gordon!' Topaz burst out.

Joe rounded on her. 'Gordon doesn't have that kind of
reach, Rossi,' he said. 'If you could keep your little private
vendetta out of this, you'd realize that. No; there's somebody
else involved now, and whoever it is, they're going to
shut you down.'

There was a silence.

'Joe's right,' Nathan said, eventually. 'There's no other
explanation.'


Topaz and Nathan walked home at sunset, holding hands.

'Don't worry about Goldstein,' he said. 'He'sjustjealous
of you. He'll come round.'

'He blames me for what's happening to White Light,' Topaz said, and then added, 'I guess they all do.'

'Hey,' Nathan told her, kissing her. 'It is absolutely not
your fault. OK? There isn't one of them wouldn't have run


23O

that story, and there isn't one of them that wouldn't have
used our only music magazine to run it in. So relax.'

She was quiet all the way home. Nathan led her to the sofa
and they sat down, and he clasped both her hands in his.

'Tell me what's bothering you,' he murmured. 'I can't
bear to see you like this.'

She looked at him, her eyes brimming. 'I don't know,'
she said. A large tear rolled down her cheek, and then
another.

'What is this?' asked Nathan, kissing her. 'This is not like
my girl.'

'Do you think' - she faltered - 'do you think I fucked my
way to the top?'

'What? No!' he said, almost laughing, but she looked so
upset he stopped himself. 'Is that what this is about? Come
on, Topaz! I didn't make you MD of Girlfriend, did I? And I
voted for you for Economic Monthly because you gave the
best presemation. You stupid woman, it was a unanimous
decision by eight people.'

She was really crying now. 'Don't leave me, Nathan,' she
sobbed.

'Who said anything about leaving you?' he said, bewildered.
'I live with you! I love you, for God's sake.'

She cried herself out for a couple of minutes, then wiped
her eyes.

'Are we finished yet?' Rosen asked.

'Yeah,' Topaz snuffled. 'Sorry.'

Tm not going to leave you, or reject you, like your

dumb-ass parents or your college friend. You got that?'
'Yes,' said Topaz meekly, kissing him.
'Come to bed,' he said.


They lay entwined in each other's arms. 'What are you
thinking about now?' Nathan asked her.

'Ice cream,' said Topaz, honestly. She smiled lazily at her
lover, and added, 'Coffee ice cream.'

'If I go get you some coffee ice cream, what will you do
for me then?' asked Nathan, looking down at her, wonder-'


23I

ing how he'd ever got this damn lucky. God, she was so
beautiful.

'I'll marry you twice.'

'OK,' he said. 'I'll be right back.'

Topaz lay in bed and thought how gorgeous he was, and
how smart, and played naming their kids again: Nate and
Louise and Nick and Rosie, she thought. After he'd been
gone a quarter of an hour she started to worry, so when the

bell buzzed she was relieved.

She opened the door.

There was a cop in the porch.

'Do you live here, ma'am?'

'Yes I do,' she said, clutching her robe around her.
'What's the problem?'

'Are you any relation to Nate Rosen?'

Topaz went cold. 'I'm his fiancee,' she whispered.
'I'mvery sorry, ma'am,' the cop said.


Musica Records issued a press statement. The whole thing
was an exaggeration. Mark Thomas, drummer for Atomic
Mass, had been convicted of possession of two joints of
marijuana at the age of sixteen and let offwith a fine. Alex
Sexton, the bassist, had borrowed his dad's car without
permission, but that had been a mistake and no charges had
ever been brought. Yes, it was true that the head of security
hired for the tour had a criminal record for grievous bodily
harm, but the band and their representatives had not been
aware of it until now. The man had been dismissed and
deported.

Rowena had rarely enjoyed a press conference so much.

'But dope is still a drug . . .' protested one journalist,
desperate to keep some controversy alive.

'What can I tell you?' shrugged Rowena. 'He didn't
inhale.'

There was laughter and applause.

The Heat Street launch was back on.


'I'm not risking more delay in New York,' Oberman


232

insisted. 'You saved your ass this time, but who knows
what that goddamn magazine will come up with next?'

'Nothing at all,' she assured him. 'We're closing them

down. '

'Yeah, well. I heard you and Krebs were stirring things
up for them.'

'I still think we should have it here or in LA.'

'I said London, and I was still your boss last time I looked,'

snarled Oberman. 'The subject is closed. Oh, and kid - '
'Yes, commander?'
'Wear something nice.'

Two days later, a thick, stiff, expensive-looking cream
envelope arrived for Richard Gibson at the White Light offices on Seventh Avenue, sent registered delivery and
marked 'Personal'. Inside, to Gibson's blinding fury, were
two invitations to the launch of the Atomic Mass album Heat Street at the Earl's Court Exhibition Centre in London,
and a short handwritten note from the Managing Director

of Luther Records.

Dear Mr Gibson,

I have great pleasure in enclosing an invitation to our launch
party, and hope that your doubtless enormous advertising revenue
will enable you to afford the air fare. You will be most welcome,
although regrettably, due to the sheer volume of interview requests
from TV, radio and major magazines -

Fuck you, thought Gibson furiously

- we will not be able togive interview time to White Light on
this occasion. I also enclose an invitation for Ms Topaz Rossi,
who I gather has been advising you on your editorial policy. I'm
sure her advice has greatly benefited ,our magazine. I am quite
sure that you, as editor, are aware how useffl she has been to you

and will therefore want to pass on our invitation to her yourself.
With best wishes.
Rowena Gordon.

Yeah. She's been real useful, Gibson thought bitterly.
He tore the envelope up.

r

233


'I love it! I think it's fantastic,' Michael said. 'You're really
coming on. I never knew you had this kind of a vindictive
streak in you.'

'Normally I don't,' Rowena said, 'but Topaz Rossi and I
have a long history. This was the closest she's come to
screwing up my career. I want the guy we're putting out of
business to know exactly who's responsible for this. I want
her management to see she's unreliable, shortotermist, lets
personal stuffaffect her business decisions.'

Krebs was not used to the edge in her voice.

'You look good,' he said, changing the subject.

'Thank you,' she smiled, instinctively tossing back her
long blonde hair. It was an adolescent gesture, totally
appealing. She's a hot little thing, he thought, pleased.

'I wanted to look good for the band,' she said. 'You
should too. It's a moment of triumph for you. It's such a
great record.'

'Thanks, babe,' Krebs said.

He wasn't listening; his eyes were still fixed on her dress.

It was a long, sleeveless figure-hugging Dior creation in
moss-green velvet, a classic, but cut to emphasize the small,
inviting swell 0fher breasts, the soft, delicate line of her bare
shoulders and her long, slim legs. Her hair, normally tied
back in a ponytail for convenience, spilled down her
shoulders and the bare skin of her back. Long diamond drop
earrings dangled and glittered against it. She looked aristocratic,
unattainable.

'How are you getting there?'

'I'm going on Concorde, tomorrow morning.'

Tm flying out this evening, so I'll see you there,' he said.
'Make sure you wear this outfit. And don't wear panties.'

'Why? Are you going to fuck me?' she asked, getting
excited.

'Yes, I think so,' he said, getting up and coming behind

her. He put one hand on the small of her back,just above the
fabric of the skirt, and laid the other open on her stomach. 'I
always want to fuck you when you look like this. Just to
remind you that you belong to me.'


234

He could feel the heat begin to stir under her skin. She
moved slightly under his hands.

'You can be as much of a hard-nosed bitch as you want
with everyone else,' he said, speaking low and close to her
ear, 'as long as you remember your place with me. On
your knees, at my feet. Or bent over a flight case. Or

spreadeagled on my bed...'

She gasped with desire.

'It's true, isn't it?' Krebs pressed her. 'Yes or no?'

'Yes!' she whispered. His hands were still on her. 'Now.
Please, Michael. Now.'

He turned her head to face him, her pupils dilated with
wanting.

'No,' he said. 'You'll wait my pleasure. Tomorrow.'
'OK,' she murmured, fighting to control herself.

He smiled and kissed her, a luxurious, possessive kiss,
letting her press herself against his erection.


Tm sorry, miss,' said the policeman. 'All the roads to Earl's
Court are blocked. It's pandemonium down here.'

She leant out of the driving seat window. He was right. A
mob of fans and photographers was blocking the way.

Tm with Musica Records,' she said, showing him her
company ID. 'Can you get me through to the reserved
parking?'

'Certainly, madam,' said the policeman, with a friendly
smile.

That's one thing I don't miss about New York, Rowena
thought, grinning.

A police escort guided her through a crowd comprised
mostly of screaming, hysterical girls to the backstage door.

'The pop group is going to play live, miss,' one of them
explained, 'and Capital Radio gave tickets away on the air,
so those as didn't manage to get in are going mad.'

'Sorry,' she sympathized. This was great; she'd had no
idea the boys were so popular back home. She'd get a
number one album on both sides of the Atlantic.

'Oh, I seen it before,' the policeman said with a worldly


235

air. 'I done security at a U2 concert.'

This guy is equating my band with Ue? she thought,
delighted. Oh my God!

'This is worse, though,' he added.


'Rowena! Come over here,' Josh Oberman said as she
stepped backstage, threading her way through a jungle
undergrowth of camera leads, lighting cables and microphones.
'Come meet my head of Press, Rachel Robinson,'
he added, without drawing pause for breath. 'She's desperate for someone to say something about Atomic
Mass to a bunch of important press people who've having to
wait th6ir turn with the band - everyone's working flat out,
we still can't meet demand. And make sure you shout,' he
bellowed unnecessarily, waving a wrinkled hand at the
auditorium behind them, which was packed out with
yelling, whistling, clapping kids waiting for the band to
come on.

'Did you have to have them play? I thought we were just
going to put the CD on,' said Rowena.

'They wanted to play,' Oberman shrugged.


	'Artists!' she said, using the same tone of voice women

normally reserve for ThenI'

Her boss laughed.

'Is Michael Krebs here?' Rowena asked casually.

'Yeah. He arrived four hours ago; Rachel's been setting

him up for interviews with Guitar World, Bassist Magazine,
Drums Unlimited, et cetera, et cetera.'

She looked to her right and saw Krebs standing against

the stage scaffolding, surrounded by reporters, greatly
enjoying himself.

'... so by the time we got to the drum fills stage, we had
about seventy-five fills on this one song, and Mark also
wanted a different sound on the hi,hat, so we . . .'

'Rowena? I'm Rachel,' said an incredibly slim woman

who looked about nineteen.

She reluctantly dragged her gaze away from her lover.

'Could you come and talk to Kerrang!? They want the


236

'Of course, I'll talk to Kerrang!. It's an honour to talk to Kerrang!!' she exclaimed, laughing. 'But why do people
want to interview backroom boys?'

'Are you kidding?' Rachel exclaimed. 'The band is so hot
right now their dustman could sell an exclusive to the News
of the World on what they ate for breakfast this morning!'
The scandal in the States was pretty good for them, too.'
She looked slyly at Rowena. 'Did you plant it?'


An hour later, she was finally allowed out of the press tent,
if only because Atomic would be hitting the stage in fifteen
minutes. They would play a four-song mini-concert, and
then the Heat Street playback would start. Some teenage
girls in the front row had become hysterical with anticipation and were being given first aid by medics. She wanted to
go and say h,i to Barbara and the boys, but waswarned away
from the dressing rooms by a burly security guard, and felt

too exhausted from the flight and the interviews to argue.
'Where am I supposed to go now?' she asked him.

He examined her perfectly valid all-access laminate
sourly.

'Well,' he conceded, 'it says here that you can go up on the
stage. '

'Good,' she snapped, and stalked up the ramps to the
wings of the stage, finding an amp she could hide behind to
watch the show. Out in front of her, the exhibition centre
stretched out, brilliant with lights and banners of Heat Street and the blue and gold Atomic Mass logo. Oh, Jesus, this
was exciting. This was her little barid that she'd found a few
years ago in a Yorkshire club. All those pople, just banks of
people, kids all crushed and sweating and unbearably
excited, fields of them right in front of her, jamming every
inch of space in the arena until it had to shut the gates

because of the fire risk - all these kids here fo Atomic.

She was Mistress of the Universe tonight.

'Like the view?' Michael Krebs murmured in her ear,

237


standing directly behind her.

He ran his hands over her ass, and smiled, satisfied.
'Good,' he said. 'I won't have to waste time taking your
panties off.'

She blushed. He was feeling her naked under the dress,
enjoying her obedience.
'We can't really do anything,' she objected softly. 'The
whole record business is here.'

'I keep telling you, Rowena,' he said, 'that I will have you
wherever I want, whenever I want. iF i tell you to march out
there and do it for the cameras, you will.'

He had pushed her legs apart, and was stroking her gently
at the top of her thighs. She pressed slightly backwards, into
his hands, staring straight ahead of her, trying to look as

though she were having a normal conversation.

'Please don't do this,' she said.

'Don't do what? Don't get you hot? Don't turn you on?'
he teased.

The arena lights dimmed. There was a huge roar of
anticipation from the crowd, waves of sound sweeping over
the stage.

'We did this, you and me,' he said in her ear, leaning in
towards her to counteract the noise. 'This gig. This record.
This launch. Your enemy, what's her name - Rossi? - we
had total victory over her.'

As the boys hit the stage running, to screams ofjoy from
the arena, Rowena Gordon felt a light, sweet, spontaneous
orgasm rush across her groin. Krebs felt it, and thrust up the
velvet of her dress in the darkness, brushing his thumb
firmly against the slick nub of her clitoris.

She cried out, the noise drowned in howling guitars, and
came again instantly, against his hand.

He spun her round to face him, tugging her dress back
down. 'Come with me,' he said, hardly .able to control
himself. 'I told you you'd wait my pleasure. It's my pleasure
right now.'

He led her to centre backstage, behind the drum riser,
above a little stairway going downwards.


z38

'There's a room under the riser,' he said. 'It's got a
trapdoor which locks.'

'Right here?' she whispered.

'Right here,' he said. She put her hand on his cock,
rock-solid through his jeans, and he grabbed it and held it
there.

'Do you think I can wait?' he asked.'

'NO. '

'Can you wait?'

'No!' she gasped. 'Oh, Michael! Oh!'

He practically threw her down the stairs before they were
interrupted by a stagehand, slamming the trapdoor under
the base of the drumkit and bolting it. The little room was
crammed with clean towels for the band, two guitars and a
bass, flight cases, bottles of Gatorade and other musician
clutter. They were swamped by music and the audience out
front going crazy. The dull boom-boom-boom of the
drums pulsed loudly above them.

Alone with him, Rowena couldn't look him in the face.
'Don't groupies usually end up down here?'
'Yes they do,' he said.

'Why don't you show me what happens to them?'

He came over towards her, twisting a piece of flex in his
hands. 'Do managing directors and groupies fuck in the
same way?' he said, teasing her again. 'Put your hands up by
the crossbeam.'

He lashed her wrists to the ceiling, so she was perched on
a case, helpless and aroused before him.

'That's tight,' she protested, tugging futilely at the cable.

Krebs looked her over, all velvet and pearls, her breasts
unprotected beneath the fabric, her'arms over her head.

'You can't touch me,' he said. 'You an't free yourself.
You can't caress me, you can't brush my hand away. Do
you understand? I can do whatever I like to you. You're at
my mercy.'

'I know,' she whispered.

'Do you like it?'

'Yes,' she said. 'You know I do.'


239

For a moment he didn't move, just stood there looking

her.

She twisted impatiently. 'Do you want me to beg?'
Krebs reached forward and eased her dress away from shoulders, kissing and licking the collarbone. She moaned,
quietly. He unsnapped her bra in a practised movement,
freeing her breasts, swollen with lust, the nipples red and
erect with longing. As she gasped with pleasure, he
to lick slowly round the left aureole, flicking his tongue
back and forwards across the peak, which was getting
bigger and harder in his mouth.

'That's OK,' he said. 'Your body is begging for you.'
Then he moved to her right breast, and when she was
practically incoherent, he took the whole thing in his mouth
and sucked.

She screamed, little rivers of sensation coursing through
her to her crotch, which was beating, throbbing with need.
She tried to press herself against him but he held her back,
smiling.

'What do you want?' he whispered. 'Tell me. Tell me
exactly what you want me to do.'

'I want you to put your cock inside me!' she gasped. The
sound of the band and the screaming fans was all around
them; her triumph heightened his every touch. She had
never in her wildest dreams thought her body capable of
such feelings.

About to burst, he shoved Up her dress and pulled her legs
open, freeing himself and thrusting into her, hard, as far as
he could go, grinding into her. Krebs had his hands on
velvet and warm skin, feeling his woman clench around
him like she wanted to milk him dry. Christ, she felt so
good. He fucked her even harder. Oh, she was great. She
was the best. Look at her bucking and writhing against him,
pleading with him not to stop . .

'I'm gonna come, Rowena,' he said thickly. She was
already there; he looked down and saw her stomach literally
convulse beneath him, one, two, three times . . .

He catled out her name over and over as he came.

240


'It was amazing! I've never seen a reaction like that,' gushed
the Music Week reporter to her an hour later, at the glittering
post-launch party at the Dorchester. 'I've never felt like that
during a concert.'

'I felt good during that concert too,' Michael Krebs said,
joining them with a glass of champagne for Rowena. She bit
her lip to stop herself from laughing; Krebs winked at her.

The reporter looked from one to the other, bewildered.
'There's obviously a great friendship between you two,' he
said.

'Not really,' Rowena grinned. 'Michael produces great
records, so I just pretend to like him so he'll keep working
with me.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the reporter sycophantically. 'But
would you go on the record as saying you make a great
team?'

'Yes, indeed,' said Michael.

Tll go on the record too,' Rowena added, dropping her
voice conspiratorially, 'as saying - '

The reporter hastily took out a biro and a scrap of paper.
'- Atomic Mass are a really, really great band.'
Krebs made a strangled coughing noise.

'- really great band,' the reporter wrote earnestly.
'Excuse us,' Krebs said, pulling her away to dance.

The hotel ballroom was full of media types, celebrities,
musicians and executives from Musica and other record
companies. Both Rowena and Michael had networked the
place for hours, and finally wanted to relax. The playback
had been another huge success; Michael's laborious, fat
productio, n had brought out the be'st in the band, who were
fantastic to start offwith, andit looked tonight as if Heat Street might become the bestselling album of his career. Rowena
watched, burning with pride, as suit after suit came up to pay
homage. She accepted her own tributes with one eye on him,
absentmindedly spooned beluga caviar into her mouth while
staring at him smiling and shaking hands across the room.
Half the other women there were doing the same thing.


24I

Tmjealous,' she said lightly. She could feel the pressure

of his hands, pulling her closer towards him. She loved the
way the black dinner jacket picked out his eyes. 'All these
other girls are looking at you.'

'Don't you think I see the guys stripping you with their
eyes?' he smiled. 'But I know who you want. And I only
want you. '

What about Debbie? she thought, but didn't say it.

'Come over tonight,' he said, '47 Park Street. We'll take

up where we left off.'

Tll check my diary,' she said, laughing.

God, I like this woman so much, Krebs thought affectionately,
smiling at his friend.

As she was about to leave - ten minutes after Michael- a

rough hand grabbed her shoulder.

'Rowena,' said Joe.

She looked at her singer, who was hoarse, sweating and
exhausted.

He held out his hand for her to shake. 'Thank you,' he
said. 'For everything.'

'Oh, Joe,' she said, clasping it, and her eyes filled with
tears.


That night, Michael was tender and gentle with her.

'I love you,' said Rowena afterwards, and regretted it
instantly.

'Come on, Rowena, don't spoil it,' he said, pulling his
jeans back on. 'You're not my girlfriend.'

'What am I, then?' she asked, astonished.

'You're my friend,' Michael'said breezily. 'You're my
good friend, who I happen to enjoy having sex with.
Debbie and I are absolutely secure in our relationship.'

He said this without a trace of irony.


Topaz organized the funeral. It was merciful that she had
something to do, it took her mind off the loneliness and the

lOSS.

Nathan had died instantly, hit by a drunk-driver, cross242


ing the road. He'd been carrying coffee ice cream. When she
saw it spattered over his shirt, mixed with dirt and blood,
Topaz had felt grief so violent she'd fainted.

They held the service at Mt Hebron Synagogue, his
favourite. She drove upfront in a long black limousine and
stared out numbly at Fifth Avenue, at the cold sidewalks
and crawling traffic. She thought about Nathan the whole
time. The synagogue and the roads were jammed with his
friends, the ones she knew and dozens she'd never met; a
sister, a cousin; all weeping for him and praying for his soul.

Topaz felt her pain as if it were a great stone, physically
blocking her breath and the tears that might clean her. She
had loved Nathan and felt safe and comforted in his
presence; her initial hot sexual crush had mellowed into
friendship and alliance over the months. Up until now, she
hadn't realized just how dependent on him she had been.
Nathan had made all these friends; real friends, crying
because he "was dead. Topaz had companions, her buddies
from the office, who'd all come round and been honestly
sorry for her. But amongst them all, there was not one real
friend. She had not one soul whom she could call on in the
night, when she lay awake staring into space.

Nathan Rosen was the only person she'd allowed to truly
befriend her since Rowena's betrayal.

His sister, Miriam, began the eulogy. Topaz crossed
herself, and beseeched the Blessed Virgin to intercede for his
soul.


'Thank you again, Miss Rossi,' Miriam Rosen said, kissing
her on the cheek. Tll be thinking of you. You make sure and
call me if there's anything you need.'

'I will, Miriam,' said Topaz. 'Gootbye now. Thank you.'

She shut the door on her and breathed out. That was the
last guest gone; now she could clear up the wake and just sit
and think. Maybe cry some.

Joc Goldstein cleared his throat.

She jumped and spun round.

243


'I'm sorry,' he said. He was standing in the kitchen

doorway. 'I didn't mean to startle you.'

'It's OK,' she said.

'I - I wanted to wait until everyone else had gone,' he said.
'I have to say something to you.'

She gestured wearily at the sideboard and tables, covered
with plates and glasses. 'Can it wait until Monday, Joe? I'm
really busy.'

'It's not that, it's not work.' He shifted slightly, uncomfortable.
'I wanted to apologize to-you. For the record, not

just because Nathan . . .' He petered out.

'I know.'

'What I said about the two of you was unforgivable.
And it wasn't true. I was just jealous, I guess I felt
humiliated when you got Economic. You know Nathan
was my mentor; I could see you meant more to him than I
did.'

Topaz looked levelly at him. Man, it was really costing
him something to come out with this stuff.

'OK, I accept your apology,' she said. 'It's decent of you
to admit it.'

lie nodded curtly, obviously debating with himself
whether to say something more, decided against it and
walked to the door.

'You make sure and - '

'- call you if I have any problems, OK, Joe,' finished
Topaz, a shade sarcastically.

lie smiled ruefully at her. 'You know, I do realize you're
very talented,' he said, and let himself out.


The phone rang, shatteringly loud in the darkness.

Goldstein glanced wearily at his bedside clock. It was

3.3o a.m. 'Goldstein,' he said.

'Joe?'

'Topaz, is that you?' he asked, wide-awake. She was
crying so hard he could barely make the words out, but it
was her, definitely.

'Could you come over, please? I can't be alone...'


244

'I'm on my way, OK? Don't do anything,' said Joe,
illogically, reaching for his slacks.


She opened the door for him, red-eyed and haggard.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I don't know what came over me.'
'It's OK,' said Joe. 'Honestly.'

'I know it's pathetic,' said Topaz, 'but I don't have
anyone I can call,' and she started to cry again.

He shut the door and guided her into the kitchen, putting
on the kettle.

'So I'm nobody, right? You never stop,' he said, and she
made a weak attempt at a smile.

'Grief comes at bad hours for the people who really care,'
he said. 'You need to mourn him, and not just by yourself.
You know what sitting shiva is?'

'I am a New Yorker,' said Topaz indignantly, through her
tears.

'Oh, OI¢, Sorry.'
'Stop saying sorry.'
'OK.'

There was silence for a minute or so.

'I brought some cheese popcorn over,' said Joe.
'I love cheese popcorn.'
'Wanna talk about him?'
'Yes I do,' she sobbed.


Joe stayed with her till dawn.

245


Chapter Twenty-One


Nathan Rosen's death changed a lot of things.

In practical terms, it meant that Topaz lossi, the main
beneficiary of his will, became a very rich woman overnight,
with a net worth of more than four million dollars.
She was also that rarest of creatures in New York, a house
owner.

It left a vacant seat on the American Magazines board. Joe
Goldstein, in confident possession of his MB A- Topaz had
given up on hers due to pressure of work - was determined
to occupy it. He mourned his friend and bitterly regretted
his behaviour towards him over the Rossi business. But he
knew that Rosen was dead, no amount of sorrov¢ could
change it. And life- and business - went on.

Joe planned on being on the board by forty and president

by fifty. Gowers wouldn't stay in the game for ever. He
hoped Topaz Rossi would be content to consolidate and
build on her three magazines- because he'd annihilate her if
she went for this one, and he was beginning to enjoy her
company.

Topaz grew up. She took a step back from her work,
made time for her friends. She was appalled to discover how
little she knew about the people she'd been working with
for years. She had dinner with Elise and her husband, and
baby-sat for her secretary. Josh Stein, who'd moved from Westside to be art director for US Womam, introduced her to
his boyfriend. Socially, she was awkward and stilted, but
people made allowances. She began to feel less alone.

She got herself an accountant and a lawyer and a realtor,
who sold the house for a huge amount of money. Topaz


246

didn't want to mess up her head any worse, thinking about
Nathan promising to be right back. The realtor plunged all
the money straight into a new apartment - a fashionable
triplex on 5th Avenue, with lots of bare space and natural
light.

Topaz spent the better part of half a million dollars
redecorating it. It gave her something to do, and it seemed
appropriate. After all, she was going to be the youngest
board member of a major magazine group in history. She
hoped Joe wouldn't fight on this one; she'd beaten him
before and would do it again if she had to, but she was really
getting fond of the guy.


Heat Street sold a million records in six months.

Michael Krebs made a fortune offthe deal.

Joshua Oberman succeeded John Watson as the new
chairman of Musica.

Rowena et up Luther as a full company. She found a
building with a knockdown rent across the park and called it
Musica Towers - not exactly Black Rock, but it'd do. She
bought five pairs of jeans and twenty T-shirts and stopped
caring what she looked like. She was in the office by eight
every morning, fine-tuning Oberman's distribution deals,
supervising computer systems and decorators and huge
wall-mounted TVs that could blast out MTV and VHI
twenty-four hours a day. She stomped about in a cloud of
dust and woodshavings, losing her temper. She started
hiring, and that was the fun part; there was so much talent
going begging it wasn't true. She hired people like herself,
young, clever hustlerswho were also music junkies.
Nobody older was going to work for a fledgling company
anyway. She did try to recruit a few established names, and
failed miserably. It didn't bother her superiors much,
though; young hungry staff were more motivated- and
they came cheaper.

There were plenty of role models in New York: Andr
Harrell, ruling at Uptown; Richard Griffiths at Epic,
another expat Brit and one whose roster made her sick with "


247

envy - Spin Doctors, Brad, Screaming Trees, Rage Against
the Machine, Eve's Plum, etc, etc; Monica Lynch of
Tommy Boy and countless others.

Obsession had a little success; the second act Rowena
signed, Steamer, a thrash band, had more.

People started to fill offices, and Luther mixed the whine
ofchainsaws with whirring computer printouts and stereos
pumping out Ice Cube and Sugar. Rowena filled one floor
with phones and faxes and started the promotion department
right away; Roxana was being worked at urban radio

and Atomic Mass at Metal and CHR within a week.

In all her life, she'd never felt so alive.

She'd learnt her lesson and made sure they had good
accountants and administrators as well as talented staff.
By the end of the year Luther was a growing concern, and
Josh Oberman finally thought that if they could just
arrange to market more product, they could set up their
own distribution.

Rowena was still obsessed with Michael, but slowly,
painfully, from a lack of oxygen, hope was starting to die.
Still, she just could not give him up, and Michael had no
intention of letting her go. He liked her. He desired her.
And though he would never admit it, Rowena was more to
him than either a friend or a piece of ass.

Michael needed her admiration, he enjoyed her intelligence,
and there was a part of him - the part whose parents
had neglected him, whose first real girlfriend had cheated on
him, whose wife was more interested in their children- that
revelled in being the object of such blind, heedless, reckless
love.

He wasn't an intentionally cruel man. He told Rowena,
and he believed it when he said it, that he wanted her to have
other lovers. To be happy. To find an available guy. But he
knew her intimately, and he knew that there was never any
real competition for him from the occasional dates that
Rowena forced herself to go on for a week or so, something
she hated doing, something she forced herself to do to prove
to herself that she wasn't helpless.


24.8

It was terrible.


'I got some news for you,' Mary Cash, her assistant, smiled
at Topaz as she handed her her coffee. 'Strictly gossip,
though.'

'That's usually the most reliable source,' Topaz said. She
meant it; not only was Mary a brilliant office manager, she
was plugged into the nerve centre of the secretarial mafia.

'Well, word is that the boys upstairs are scouting to buy a
sports property.'

'Really?' her boss asked. It made sense.

'Yeah, and when they've found one, they'll be picking
some people to work on the buyout, monitoring the
team . . .'

'And promoting the best person to the board?'

'You got it.'

Topaz felt a rush of pure adrenalin flood through her. She
hadn't been this excited since Nathan died.

'And for what it's worth,' added Mary, pleased to see her
interested again, 'the same person who told me was talking
privately with Linda this morning.'

Linda was Joe Goldstein's secretary.

'Aha,' said Topaz, thoughtfully.

'Aren't you guys going to another Mets game tonight?'
asked Mary archly. 'Will this get in the way?'

'Yes we are, and maybe,' said Topaz. 'But you know
what? If it does - tough!'

They laughed.


'Are you sure?'Joe pressed Linda.
'Mary Cash. I swear.'
'OK, thanks.'

He took his finger off the buzzer and stred out of the
window. It was a spectacular view from the forty-third
floor, the tops of the skyscrapers and the Hudson and the '


249

long, straight roads with their glittering little cars. That was
the prize: New York. Nothing less, as far as he was
- concerned. New York was media city, and only two types
of men really ruled here: media bigshots and the Wall Street
crowd. It would have been television, if he had had his
choice.

But even someone as driven as Joe couldn't complain
about the speed of this rise.

The American Magazines board, before he was thirtyofive!

It was a bright autumn day-in Manhattan, the sun
streaming weakly into the chill air, nothing but dry, crisp
brilliance outside his warm office.

He truly hoped Topaz would not take it personally, but
he wouldn't give this up. For anyone.


'Seeing much of David?' Rowena asked Barbara, cradling
her phone with her shoulder as she studied the Bitter Spice
sales figures.

'Not really,' Barbara said. David Hammond, head of
A&R at Funhouse Records in the UK, had been dating her
for years. 'He took up with some Central European girl and
carried on with me at the same time.'

Rowena winced. 'That must've hurt.'

'Yeah it hurt. And you know I slept with someone else

once, two years ago', when David and I had just broken up?'
'But he wasn't seeing you.'

'I know. But he keeps referring to it, every time. As if my
seeing this guy once is the same thing as him taking Elvira to
every bloody industry event...'

'And he's still sleeping with you?'

'I know.' Barbara sighed. 'It's pitiful. But I'm sexually
addicted, and I love him, however much of a bastard he is.
What women will do, how low women will sink when
they're in love.'

'I know,' said Rowena, thinking about Michael.

'Your head can be fully aware that the guy's no good. It's
all very well, magazines saying that if you can see what a
jerk he is you'll be cured. That's bullshit.'


250

'Your heart rules.'

'Every time.'

'It's an occupational hazard of being female,' Rowena
said.

'How's business? Apart from us.'

'Apart from you, pretty good; including you, sensational.
I've been consolidating, building, nothing flashy.
Oberman's looking to set up a soundtrack deal, a label/
studio-type deal- an exclusive arrangement.'

'You'd do all the soundtracks for one movie studio?'
'Exactlyl And they'd own a piece of the label.'

'Sounds interesting. It could kick you up the corporate
ladder, too.'

'No one ever said you were dumb, honey.'


'Nice change-up,' said Topaz appreciatively. 'Maybe we
have a chance in this one.'

'I wouldn, t bet on it,' said Joe, demolishing the first third
of his hotdog. He swallowed and added, 'Pitching's OK,
just. Hitting sucks. Us and the Padres have the lowest
hitting average in the league, remember.'

'Thanks for the recap,' said Topaz, glaring at him. She

hated defeatists. 'I love sports,' she added.
Joe stared fixedly at the field.
'And I love magazines,' she added.

Joe turned to her, dragging his gaze away from the game.
'Look, Rossi,' he said, 'if this is your attempt at subtlety, it's

not working. I take it you heard about the sports title.'
'Right.'

'And... will you be requesting an assignment to the
takeover team?'

'You mean am I pitching for the board'?'
'That's what I mean,' said Goldstein.
'Are you?'

They looked at each other for a long moment, regretfully.

'Let's make it a clean fight.'

'OK.'

25I


'No resentment;' Topaz insisted. 'Either side.'

'Fine by me.'

'Let's make it a rule never to talk about business after
hours. '

'Let's watch the damn game, Topaz.'

Gary Sheffield strode on to the field, pinch hitting for Pat
Rapp.

'Oh no,' said Joe.

'That's never in the pitch zone! Oh, no!' said Topaz,
jumping up in her seat. 'No!'

Sheffield swung and hit a low outside fastball in a soaring
curve towards the leftfield stands.

'It's history,' moaned Goldstein, a man in pain. 'Oh God.

I can't bear it.' Topaz covered her eyes with her hands to
avoid the gruesome sight of another enemy home run.

'I want you to know that I'm not gonna back offor ease

up in any way on this, 'Joe said.
'No business.'
'OK.'


Topaz drove them to Ren Pujol's on West 5ISt Street for
dinner. 'They have a melting chocolate cake that's the

closest thing to heaven this side of a cemetery,' she said.
'French food. Makes a change,'Joe remarked.
'What do you normally eat?'
'Italian.'

She smiled at him.

They talked a lot at dinner, about politics, religion,
music. Topaz discovered that Goldstein had been pretty
lonely since transferring to the East Coast; he hadn't done as
badly as her, but he still missed his friends.

'I gotta get back,' said Joe eventually, checking his watch.

'I got a girl waiting.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Topaz said. 'I didn't know you had a
girlfriend.'

Joe laughed. 'She's not my girlfriend, she's just some girl.

I told the porter to let her in at ten so I'd better not be much
longer.'

'Some girl?' repeated Topaz.

'Yeah. Joanna orJoanie or something. I met her at a bar,

arranged to see her tonight.'

'Just to get laid?'
'Right,' said Joe pleasantly.

'Does this woman realize you call her "some girl" and
don't even know her name?'

'Don't preach at me, Topaz,' said Joe less pleasantly.
'She's going to get what she wants out of it. Girls who hang
around that kind of pick-up joint aren't looking for a
"meaningful relationship".' He put quotes around the
phrase.

Topaz found herself getting angry. 'You were hanging
around that kind of pick-up joint too, Joe. What does that
make you? A gigolo?'

Goldstein flushed. 'It's different for men, and you know
it.'

'Damn right it's different for men. Men don't get labelled
as whores for having sexual desires.'

Joe flinched. 'I don't like hearing a lady talk dirty.'

Topaz paused, then reached for her wallet and threw two
hundred-dollar bills on the table.

'Fuck you, Joe Goldstein. And fuck the double standard,'
she said calmly, and walked out.


The team working on the buyout of Athletic World was
announced internally. Only two people of the requisite
seniority had applied: Joe. Goldstein and Topaz Rossi.
Employees graffitied notices with 'Round Two' and 'The
Rematch'.

Topaz sent Joe a copy of Backlash: The Undeclared War
Against :;merican Women by Susan Faludi

In return, he sent her a copy of The Way Things Ought to
Be by Rush Limbaugh.

Athletic World proved a complicated deal. The magazine
was still family-run, one of the only major sports magazines
not part of a publishing conglomerate - 'yet,' as Matthew
Gowers said. The trouble was that it didn't stand alone..

253


Athletic World was part of a small group of sports companies
- the middle-aged man who'd founded it had also acquired a
gym and a company that made personalized shoelaces for
trainers, in addition to a medium-sized operation selling Athletic World merchandise.

Joe suggested the board look for an easier target.

They turned him down, unanimously. American Magazines
was tired of risky start-up ventures. American Magazines
was shopping for a little goodwill, for a brandname.

Topaz played to her strengths and requested that she be
assigned to profile the magazine, circulation and advertising,
how it could be improved. Joe set to worl with due
diligence, finding an investment bank, finding buyers for
the other parts of the group.

Both of them were in their element completely. The
chairman and the board kept close tabs, and were extremely
impressed.


'Let me get this straight,' Kirk said. Kirk was Joe's closest
friend; they jogged together before work. He swallowed a
mouthful of doughnut.

'She's smart, she's funny, she has a great body - '
'Knockout. Absolutely knockout.'
'And she likes baseball?' 'Yup.'

'And you let her go? You really screwed up,' commented
Kirk.

'Yeah, well,' said Joe. He pummelled the punchbag.
'That's the problem. She's too masculine.'

'Tomboys are usually great in bed,' said Kirk.

'I didn't fuck her, OK. I'm talking about losing a friend
here. '

'But you guys were inseparable for the past six months!

You couldn't pull her in all that time?' Kirk teased.

'Jesus, Kirk. I said it wasn't like that. We just talked,

about politics, art, you know.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Oh, please,' snapped Joe, exasperated. 'The goddamn


254

bitch is fighting me for the board. For the board. She refuses
to budge an inch. I mean I've had it with her. She's too
young and totally inexperienced and I am going to cream her. Fuck her. I'm out.'

He savagely laid into the punchbag.

Kirk chuckled. 'Joe, my friend,' he said, 'you've got it
bad.'


It was 7 p.m. and the Girlfriend offices were emptying out.
Topaz wrapped up her discussion with Sue Chynow, the
editor-in-chief, and went to fix herselfa fresh pot of coffee.

It was going to be a long night.


'I got takeout,' Joe said as she appeared in his office five
minutes later. 'Chinese, is that good for you?

'It's fine,' Topaz said coldly, drawing up a chair and
briskly opening a file. 'Coffee?'

'Yes, thaak you. Black,' said Joe, equally briskly.

They both began to study cashflow charts in aggressive
silence.

An hour later, they were having what politicians term 'a
free and frank discussion'.

'But women working out are totally different to women
sports fans!' roared Topaz. 'Just like men, you stupid
asshole! Working out is not a sport! It's exercise!'

'No. You're wrong,' Joe said, through clenched teeth.
'They're into Flo-Jo because she wears make-up, not
because of her speed.'

'No. Men are into Flo-Jo because she wears make-up.'
'Take women out of the goddamn reader profile!' yelled

Joe.

'I will not. It alters the finance - '

'Don't tell me about financing, Rossi! What do you think
I've been doing for the last month - ?'

'Looking in the mirror and jerking off, probably,' said
Topaz rudely.

Joe went white with anger. 'What did you say?'

'You heard.'

255


'If you were a man, I'd knock you out.'

'Oh! Big guy,' sneered Topaz contemptuously. Why was

he so gorgeous and such an asshole? 'I want you to
remember that I kicked your ass over Economic Monthly. Think about that, Joe. Consider it a dress rehearsal.'

Goldstein got up and came towards her. 'You just don't

get it, do you, cutie? This job's mine already. You couldn't
buy out a loaf of bread, and they know it. You'll be
reporting to me, and I'm truly going to enjoy it.'

Topaz was an inch away from him. 'Who are you calling
cutie?' she hissed.

'Who do you think, babe? What are you gonna do? Sue

me for sexual harassment?'

She looked at him, black-haired, handsome, taunting her
furiously. He was wearing jeans and an expensive-looking

,
	Oxford shirt.

'Oh. that's not sexual harassment, pretty boy,' Topaz
said. ' This is sexual harassment.'

And she grabbed the collar of his shirt and ripped it down

the front, sending the little ivory buttons clattering on to the
boardroom table.

His chest was strong, lean and covered in tiny wiry black
curls. Topaz steadied herself. An incredible, overwhelming
rush of desire surged through her.

'What the fuck?' said Joe softly. Oh God, he shouldn't
have brought up this sex-tension thing. The. touch of her
hand against his neck - even that sharp, angry touch - had
set him off. He wondered if he dared kiss her. Damn, he was
hard. He didn't dare look down in case he drew her
attention to i.

Tm sorry... I got carried away...' murmured
Topaz. 'Maybe I can get a pin and fix it for this evening- I'll
replace it, of course . . .'.

She tried to pull his shirt together, her hands on his chest,

his ribcage.

'Quit touching me, damn it,' growled Joe.

'Fine,' Topaz snapped back. 'I - '

She gasped. Goldstein grabbed her shoulders and pushed


256

her back on the hard table.

'What are you doing?' whispered Topaz.
'Take an educated guess,' said Joe, and took her face in his
two hands and kissed her impatiently, sucking on her top

lip, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. I shouldn't do this, thought Topaz.
Heat flooded her belly.
She kissed him back, hard.


'No! Go on,' said Marissa, utterly fascinated.

'Well, apparently,' said Lisa, 'the janitor heard screams at
one in the morning, like woman's screams, upstairs in the boardroom, so he runs upstairs and Joe goes, "Everything's
OK," but he insists on going in to check, and Topaz Rossi
was sitting there all red-faced with her buttons done up
wrong and her breath's coming short - '

'No!' said Marissa, trying to suppress a jealous rage. Joe
Goldstein was the best-looking man in the company.

'-and Joe was tucking his shirt back into his pants,'
finished Lisa triumphantly.

'What a tramp!' Marissa trilled. 'She let him do... that with her in the boardroom? First Nathan, now this. Well, he'll
want nothing more to do with her now, of course.'

Lisa wasn't so sure about that, but kept her counsel.
Marissa Matthews was a powerful columnist.

'Topaz Rossi just preys on older, rich men. I shall tell
everybody.'

'Everybody knows,' said Lisa, 'and he's not that much
older.'


Joe called Topaz.

'Wanna go to the game on Saturday?' "

'Sure,' she said, delighted.

Fernandez pitched some brilliant high-heat balls and
struck out six enemy batsmen.

257


Chapter Twenty-Two


The flight fromJFK to LAX takes-five hours, and Rowena
spent most of it working. Generally speaking, she loved to
fly. She liked to have a few hours away from the phones to
read a novel or daydream. She enjoyed the lift in her
stomach at takeoff and landing, and even now she felt a
small thrill of adventure at jetting from one city to another.
But this time it was different.

She :pencilled another note next to the paragraph on
royalty breaks, wishing for the millionth time that she had a
better grasp of maths. It was one hell of an important deal
for her. Every per cent in every clause had to be exactly
right.

0 'Champagne, Ms Gordon?' enquired the stewardess,
hovering solicitously. So far this elegant businesswoman
had refused the chocolates, cashew nuts, cocktails, and main
meal of fillet of Dover sole, lobster or roast pheasant which
was the envy of every other first-class service in America.
She injected a pleading note into her voice.

Rowena relented. 'That would be lovely. Thank you.'
The attendant tilted her crystal glass slightly and filled it
with the light golden nectar, which delicately spat and
bubbled as it poured. Rowena smiled her thanks.

'Busy trip, ma'am?' She glanced at the pile of contracts on

the empty seat.

'Just slightly,' Rowena said.

Interesting that she's English, the stewardess thought as

she "moved on. The Brits don't usually dress that well.


Rowena leant back to sip her champagne, glad of the break.


258

She was wearing a soft Liz Claiborne pantsuit, flowing and
loose, in a gentle fawn. She'd teamed it with chestnut shoes
from Pied Terre, and a crisp white shirt. Her make-up was
equally subtle: buttery eyeshadow, matt bronze lips, the
faintest hint of blusher. Her long blonde hair was gathered
at the nape of the neck in a tortoiseshell clip. She looked
every inch a nineties player: beautiful, casual, absolutely
businesslike.

She allowed the drink to refresh her and ran over her
schedule for the trip. She was staying in a house in the
Hollywood hills, permanantly rented for visiting Musica
executives. Lunch with John Metcalf was all set for noon
tomorrow, and that, she reflected wryly, would be an all
mineral-water meal. That would., be one conversation
where she could never afford to drop her guard. Then the
Coliseum, where Atomic Mass were headlining their first
stadium gig. She felt proud and anxious all at once; no
matter how.many copies Heat Street had sold, this was the
first date of the tour, and they'd never filled a venue of that
size before.

Even Atomic Mass could run into problems.

The ticket printout she'd seen two days ago showed only
a 75 per cent gate sale, and the world'sjournos were poised
with sharpened pencils and unforgiving cameras, ready to
label them an overblown hype.

She shuddered. In the music business, 'hasbeen' is a
dangerous insult- it often became a self-fulfilling prophecy,
and nobody, but nobody, .was immune from media backlash
look what it did to Michael Jackson's last record!

Everyone's a critic, she thought furiously, and that bitch
Topaz Rossi is the Queen Bee. Ever since Atomic Mass had
launched the album in London, Topaz had done what she
could to hurt the band, hurt Rowena, and hurt Luther.

She won't stop until she's brought me down, Rowena
reflected. Venomous tramp. She wants her revenge.

She knew Rossi had primed at least three people in MTV
and one at Rolling Stone to trash this gig, probably more.
And anyone who worked for American Magazines knew .

259


what they thought of the show without turning up to see it,
at least they did if they valued their jobs.

I won't dwell on it, Rowena told herself. The boys will be
OK. They're the best band in the world. I have a deal to do here .

She wondered if Michael would find time to call her.


She was still working on release obligations when the plane
banked into its descent. The ocean shone in the moonlight,
and Los Angeles was spread out in the darkness like a
sparkling, jewelled grid. Mercifully, for once VIP arrival
service was fast and effortless, and her Gucci cases were
amongst the first off the carousel.

In the limo she relaxed. She was pretty sure of what she
wanted from Metcalfnow.
, And I'll get it, too, she thought. They say he's pretty
tough. But I'm tougher. And I'm hungrier than he is for this
thing.

The car took a left at the Hyatt on Sunset and snaked up
the steep, winding hills. A little while later it stopped at the
house, and Rowena let the chauffeur unlock the gates and
carry her luggage into the porch. She tipped him twenty
bucks. Why not? She was rich.

She flicked on the lights and took a look around,
interested in what the company provided for its top people
but you're not top people yet, she reminded herself. Maybe
tomorrow you'll be top people.

There was a note for her from the maid on the kitchen
table, propped against a huge vase full of orchids. Towels,
cosmetics, toiletries, bathrobes and pyjamas had been
provided for her convenience. There was food and drink in
the refrigerator and cinnamon coffee on the stove. The
office next to the bedroom was equipped with a computer
and fax machine, and had a range of exercise equipment set
up for her use. There was a selection of books and videos in
the drawing room. The chauffeur and herself were on
call twenty-four hours. She hoped everything was to
Ms Gordon's satisfaction and that Ms Gordon would have


260

a nice day.

Cinnamon coffee? Rowena wondered.
The phone rang.
'Rowena Gordon.'

'Miss Gordon?' asked a warm male voice.

'Yup, that's what I said,' said Rowena, slightly irritated.
'This is John Metcalf.'

'Oh,' said Rowena. 'Hi,' she added lamely.

'Did you have a good flight?' Metcalf asked, sounding
amused at her discomfiture.

'Yes thanks,' said Rowena. 'Good of you to call.' She
didn't ask how he got her number. I'll let him make the
running, she thought.

'I got your number from Musica in New York,' he said.
'Thought I'd call and check you were OK in LA by
yourself.'

'Hey, that's nice of you,' she said. 'But I'm a big girl, and I
carry a gun a.t all times.'

Why am I snapping his head off?. I'm supposed to be
pitching this guy.

Metcalf chuckled. 'Point taken. Will the Ivy be good for
you tomorrow?'

'It'll be fine. I hear they have amazing soft-shell crabs.'

'Rowena! You mean you've never tried them? You
haven't lived until you've tasted those things,' he said.

Well, we've moved on from 'Miss Gordon' pretty
quickly, Rowena thought. But she didn't really mind. He
sounded so friendly and warm, not kissy and LA-insincere
like she'd expected.

Tll look forward to it, .and I'll look forward to meeting
you,' she said pleasantly.

'It goes double here- the legendary Rowena Gordon!' he
said.

The legendary Rowena Gordon? OK, so it was just a line,

but she liked the way it sounded. She liked it a lot.

'See you tomorrow, Mr Metcalf.'

'Please call me John. I hope you look as good as you
sound,' he said, and rang off.


261

Cheeky bastard, Rowena thought. But she was grinning.
She flicked a switch on the stove to heat the coffee. When
in LA, after all . . . the fridge was lavishly stocked with
ham, chicken, ice cream, smoked salmon, olives; food
enough for a starving army of gourmets. In the drinks door
there was a pitcher of margaritas, a chilled magnum of
champagne, and a bottle of Gordons next to three cans of
Schweppes tonic water. Nice touch!

She fixed a weak G&T, clinking oversized ice cubes into a
large frosted glass, and padded round the apartment.
Everything was state-of-the-art, everything was the height
of luxury. The drawing room projected on to the side of the
hill and was three walls glass, so you could look out over
Hollywood and the glittering city set at its feet, quiet from
this height, moving calmly in rivers of light. In stark
contrast to New York's concrete forest, there were only
two clusters of skyscrapers visible on the horizon.

Rowena looked out over Los Angeles, towards Century
City. John Metcalfmight still be in his office there, making
deals, rubbishing scripts, green-lighting pictures. He held
sway over the destinies of hundreds of directors, actors,
roducers, agents. And right now, one record company
executive.

Michael rang the next morning.

'I was thinking about you last night,' he said. 'I was
having sex with someone else, and I was thinking about you
going down on me.'

Rowena couldn't help herself. She felt her nipples stiffen
in response to his lust.

'I put my cock inside her,' he said, 'and I fucked her, and I
thought about you sucking me. You want to do that right
now, don't you?'

'Yes,' whispered Rowena, wet for him already.
'Are you playing with yourself?.'
'Yes.' She was.

'I can hear it in your voice,' Michael said,, satisfied. 'You
can't comeunless I say so. If you were here I'd come in your


262

mouth, and I wouldn't let you touch yourself.'

Rowena moaned.

'If you're sucking my cock, I expect it done properly,' he
said. 'You have to lick my balls, and swirl your tongue over
my cock,, and suck me real, real slow, and make me come. I
haven't got time for you to touch yourself. It's not my
problem.'

She shuddered, uncontrollably aroused.

'I'm gonna make you beg for it,' he said. 'I'm going to
take my cock out and rub it over your cheeks and lips until

you beg me to put it back in your mouth.'

'Please,' Rowena sobbed. 'Please.'

'Have some control,' Michael teased her. 'You can't
come yet. Then I'm going to shove it back in your mouth,
right down the back of your throat. I'm going to grab the
back of your head with my hands and push you down on
my cock. I'm going to fuck your mouth.., maybe I'll
have you stop in the middle and tell me how much you love
it what I taste like...'

Her breathing was ragged and strained.

'You'll give me head whenever I ask for it,' he said
harshly.

'Yes,' she managed.

'I can have you at my whim.'

'Yes. '

'Now come for me,' Michael ordered.

She gasped as she climaxed, her body arching, her
splayed fingers soaked in he own juices.

Michael's voice came smiling down the phone. 'Good
girl,' he said. '| have to go now.'

'Goodbye,' she whispered. She put the phone down and
wondered if she had ever felt cheaper. But she still longed
for him. God, how she longed for him.

I'm a junkie, thought Rowena. I'm addicted to Michael
Krebs.


She stepped out on to the patio, wet and silken from her
shower, swathed in a huge white towelling bathrobe, a mug


263

of very delicious cinnamon coffee steaming in her hand.
The warm scent of hundreds of flowers hit her straight
away. She settled into a green wicker chair, breathing in the
gentle humid morning air, birds singing all around her.

'Bloody hell,' she remarked to a starling. 'l could get used
to this.'

Work, work, work, her New York brain screamed at her, What do you think you're doing? You're supposed to be setting up a
soundtrack deal with the third-biggest studio in the world! Whole
record companies have been established on less. This is a deal that
could push Musica one, maybe two places up the world rankings,
and as for your own position . . . bottom line, you want to wind up
president, or not? You think Ahmet Ertegun would be out here

drinking coffee? Haul ass, woman! Rowena sighed. Now! it added.

Reluctantly, she drained the mug and went off to study
the diagrams of unit sales in relation to box-office takings.

By lunchtime she was sick with nerves. She changed her
outfit four times, eventually settling on loafers, black
Calvin Klein jeans, a Def American T-shirt, and a very,
.very expensive pair of sunglasses. She wanted to look
Californian and give the impression that she was too
important to bother with dress codes. Damn it! I am
important! she told herself. I'm Rowena Gordon, MD of
Luther Records and the hottest music business executive in
New York!

He was just a studio head. That was all. Right?


The limo glided through LA.. Rowena stared out of the
windows, mirrored from the outside, watching the landmarks
of Sunset Boulevard slip past her.., the Rainbow,
the Roxy, Geffen Records . . . it was a city designed only
for drivers. She stepped out at the Ivy looking sleek and

confident, trying to feel the same way.

Relax! It's a breeze. It's a done deal.

'Rowena Gordon for John Metcalf,' she announced to the
maitre d'.

'Of course, ma'am. This way,' he said cheerfully, leading
her through the packed restaurant to the best and most
secluded table in the place. I5-O to Metcalf, Rowena
thought, using her metaphor for the war with Topaz
Rossi. He was studying a wine list as she approached,
immaculately dressed in a dark suit by Hugo Boss with
discreet gold cufflinks. She pulled at her T-shirt and felt
like an idiot. 30-o.

'Mr Metcalf,' she said, extending her hand. Tm Rowena
Gordon.'

She was shocked, and tried not to show it. She was so
used to being the youngest player in any deal. But he
couldn't be more than a few years older than her; he was
smooth-skinned, he had a large, taut, muscular body, and
thick hazel hair with just the faintest grey flecking the sides.
Christ, he was gorgeous, and what astonishing eyes.
Thirty-five, tops.

'Good to se you, Rowena. Have a seat, please. And the
name's John.'

She wanted to reply that he could call her Rowena, but
forced herself to swallow the rebuke. It was his show.

'Please, indulge me, don't insist on sticking to the mineral
water,' he said. 'The kir royales here are exquisite. I'll order
for us both, so you won't be at any negotiating disadvantage.
Please. i beg you.'

She looked at the handsome man smiling opposite her,
who then batted his eyelids in a theatrical gesture of
persuasion.

What a character, she thought with complete approval.
The kind of guy you'd call a record man. Except that he's in
movies.

She deided to throw away the script.

'OK, you win,' she said. 'I hate to see a grown man

cry. '


The two-hour lunch turned into a three-hour lunch, and a
three-hour lunch turned into tea complete with china cups
and a fake Georgian silver teapot.


265

'Cucumber sandwiches! Bring me cucumber sandwiches,'
Metcalf demanded. 'I have an English lady here.'

'You're a jerk, John,' said Rowena, grinning. 'No one in
England eats cucumber sandwiches. And no one eats
muffins either. And we don't all know Princess Diana.'

'Next thing you'll be telling me there's no Victoria's

Secret in England,' Metcalfprotested.

'There isn't.'

'No Victoria's Secret, English lingerie, in England?' he
asked.

'None,' said Rowena mercilessly.

Metcalf considered this disconsolately. 'What about the
tooth fairy?'

'Oh, she's real,' she reassured him, and they both started

to laugh.


'Twelve per cent rising one per cent, point five, point five,
point five in the four years.'

'Get out of my face,' she said.

'That's the deal, take it or leave it,' John insisted. 'I can take it to PolyGram tomorrow.'

'They'll leave it too,' she said. 'I won't make this deal
unless the numbers are right. And you can forget about
reversion of rights. Musica does not surrender its masters.
We're only in the market to buy, we're not interested in
renting.'

'You're a tough bitch, Ms Gordon, anyone ever tell you
that?'

'Frequently, Mr Metcalf. Frequently.'


'So I hope I can tempt you along to the gig tomorrow,'
Rowena said.

'What, go see the hottest band in the world with the
best-looking woman in the universe? I'll have to check my
diary,' Metcalfteased her, shaking her hand.

Rowena opened the door of the limo and gave him what
she hoped was a businesslike smile. 'I feel like I just went
nine rounds with Mike Tyson,' she said.


266

He gave her a quick, intelligent glance. 'You did,' he said.
'But I'm still standing.'

'For now,' said John Metcalf. 'For now.'

267


Chapter Twenty-Three


'... And this is Gloria Roberts, live from o5.5, KNAC,
always there at all the really big concerts, and we are backstage at the Coliseum and Joe Hunter of British rock
sensations Atomic Mass is here with me! Welcome back,

J

oe. '

'This lady I am talking to,' said Hunter, in his rich

,
	Lancashire burr, 'was one of the first people ever in America

to play Atomic Mass on the radio! Can you remember?'

'I do remember!' said the DJ, immensely flattered.

John Metcalf spun the steering wheel lightly with one
hand, cruising down the Santa Monica freeway towards the
Coliseum, listening to the band on KNAC, where Joe, the
singer, was playing the interviewer like a guitar. He flicked
a few buttons on the multi-play sound system, trying to
find a Top 40 station that wasn't wall-to-wall Atomic
Mass. He failed.

'And this is "Big Cat" from Animal bstinct...'

'... That was "Frozen Gold", a little Atomic Mass for ya
there...'

'... from a record which just sold and sold and sold.'

'... making the British rock. combo only the third act
ever to sell out the Coliseum...'

'... live from Venice Beach, where our "what would you do for a pair of tickets for Atomic Mass" contest is reaching
its climax.'

'And that was "Sea Diver" by Mott the H0ople...'

John rolled his eyes in mock relief.

'... who, by the way, are cited as one of the biggest
influences on the band of the moment, Atomic Mass,


268

headlining the Coliseum tonight on the veryfirst show of the Animal Instinct world tour 995 - .'

He groaned in delighted defeat. He couldn't get away
from them, which meant he couldn't get away from her. At
least his baby label was in good hands. What a woman!
What an executive! What a... what a babe!

She had sat in his office, commandeered a spare telephone
and fixed the problem.

'OK. This is how it is,' she had said briskly, slapping a
sheet of ticket sales in front of him. 'Gate is eighty-five per
cent. And that's not good enough. I need a hundred per
cent. '

'But why do you care?' he'd asked, amused. 'You're fine
at eighty-five. They'll make money!'

'That's not the point. It's how the band are perceived. We
open at the Coliseum, we sell out the Coliseum. That's it.
No argument. I want people clamouring for tickets they
can't buy.:

'Otherwise what? They look bad?'

'Congratulations, you win a cigar,' said Rowena, as if to a
particularly stupid child. 'The boys are hot property today
and I want them to be hot property tomorrow and the day
after that.'

'But the gig is tomorrow,' he pointed out, admiring the
silver-blonde cascade of hair tumbling to her slender waist.

Her iced-mint eyes were sparkling with the challenge.
'That gives me three hours,' said Rowena.

'You can't do anything in three hours!' laughed John.
'Oh yeah?' she said. 'Watch me.'

And he'd watched her. He'd watched the elegant turn of
her calf in her tight jeans, the tight sweet swell, of her small
breasts under her bodystocking, the Way she sat with her
legs apart like a man, tapping her knee with one beautiful,
unpainted hand. He'd tried not to stare too hard at her
crotch, gently outlined under the protecting denim. He
wanted to undo the buttons of her fly and slide his hand in
there, and guide her slowly, slowly, to spasm, till she was
whimpering and begging, and maybe he'd take a couple of


269

handfuls of that fountain of blonde hair and twist her head
roughly about while she squirmed against his palm...
God, he'd be patient with her, and when he put his cock in
that soft silver wetness he'd take her with a slow intensity,
deep, long strokes, ignoring her pleas to fuck her brains out.
He'd teach her what sex was really about, and she'd come
like it was the end of the world, and then . . . and then . . .
and then he'd marry her, the gorgeous fucking creature.

And occasionally he'd watched how goddamn great she
was at her job.

'So can I speak to the PD? Hey, Ken? Rowena Gordon!
Uh-huh? You too, up book again I see... Look, I got a
trade for you.., stick on the Catch-22 single. No, listen,
you play it, I got five hundred tickets for Atomic Mass at the
Coliseum tomorrow.., that's right, completely sold
out . . . great.'

'Sam Goody in Sacramento please - Richard Brown?
Rowena Gordon - you got a nice Mass display up there,
babe? Cause I'm thinking maybe the boys might drop in on
their way out to the plane.., shit, you know I can't
guarantee it... No, the show's totally sold out, but you
vanna run a promotion I can cut you a deal- a hundred, two
hundred? two fifty? I don't know, it's tough - call Simon at
TicketMaster and tell him it's on Musica corporate rate.
Anything for my favourite store manager.'

'Joseph Moretti. This is Rowena Gordon. Of course top
brass work the promo phones! This is Musica, not MCA!
Here it is. Show is totally sold out. I want tomorrow to be
Atomic Mass day on KXDA- you get one thousand tickets
and ten pairs of all-access passes,. I get three tracks an hour
every hour minimum- I can fix interviews - no, that's fine!
I don't know, what are the three most beautiful words in the
English language? A done deal? Ha ha ha! You got it . . .'

She put the phone down on Tower on Sunset two and a
half hours later, and Atomic Mass had an exclusive franchise
on every major radio station and record store in southern
California.

'You're just a show-off,' said John, shaking his head.

270


Rowena lit a cigarette and took a deep pull, satisfied. He
noticed she neither asked for permission to smoke nor

apologized for it.

'What now?'

'Now I fax Musica's head of PR in New York with a
press release.'

'Which says what?' he asked, completely fascinated.
'Which says,' she grinned, 'that the show is sold out, the
only way to get tickets is through radio and in-store
competitions, and that police have been warned of possible
riots by crowds of disappointed fans unable to get in.'

He laughed. 'Woman, you are incredible. I can't believe
it. I gave you a phone, and you delivered Los Angeles.'

'With red ribbons and a cherry on top,' Rowena agreed.
'So modest.'

'Fuck modest!' she said, feeling powerfully happy. 'I'm
the best.'


He drove her to Morton's for dinner, and the night air was
charged with jasmine and sex. She was wearing a grey
dress, a little silken thing that poured over her slim body like
water. Her long legs were naked down to the designer
sandals. He wanted her so badly it ached.

John Metcalfwas a studio president, and attractive in his
own right. He was rich, he was powerful, and he was
straight, in one of the most hedonistic cities in the world.
There had been a lot of women, not all of them stupid.

But he knew within days of meeting her that Rowena
Gordon was quite different from all of them. It wasn't a
blinding revelation, the flash of light and cosmic neon
arrows and everything else an Angeleno expects.

It was just a quiet certainty that this girl was the one.

He wanted to own her and possess her. He wanted to put
his ring glittering on her finger and scream to the world that
she was his alone. The contradictions of her entranced him
that cool, ladylike English voice wheeling and dealing with
the appetite of a Brooklyn hustler; that delicate rosy beauty
throwing itself into brutal male music like heavy metal and


27I

hardcore rap; her classically educated brain focusing its laser
intelligence with total absorption on music he didn't
understand and names he didn't recognize - techno, glare,
swingbeat. She seemed interested in making money, even
greedy, and yet completely uninterested in making it
anywhere other than the record business. The day after the
soundtrack deal was finalized, he'd offered her a vice
presidency at the studio, with stock options, at triple what
she was making at Musica. She'd smiled and asked him to
explain to her why she should trade down.

He wondered about her sexuality as his dark eyes swept

over her lithe athletic body. He wondered if she realized
how obvious she was about what she wanted. She flung her
success down like a sexual gauntlet. She couldn't have made
it clearer if she'd gone out in a T-shirt saying DOMIqATE ME
in big black letters. And she evidently had some lover, some
man who was giving her what she thought shewanted.

John Metcalfpressed his foot on the accelerator, thinking
murderous, aroused thoughts. The cool night air rushed
past them, lifting Rowena's blonde hair like a golden banner
streaming in the darkness. That made it worse. Whoever he
is, he' s history, Metcalfthought grimly. I wonder what he made
her do for him. I wonder if he made her swallow. I wonder if he put
her on her hands and knees and screwed her from behind. Jesus! If
he touches her again, he's a dead man.

Rowena stretched in the seat, lifting her arms above her

head. Her body bent into a slight bow, and he could see her
delicate little nipples, hardened by the cold, push slightly
against her dress.

I'm going to have you, Rowena Gordon, he said to himself.

I' m going to make you come so hard you weep. I'm notjust going to
shove it into you the way you think you like it. I' m going to make
love to you an inch at a time, until you're so sensitive to my touch
you get wet when my fingers brush your elbow. If you think about
me when you're walking down the street, the fricti'on of your legs
will make you come . . .


Rowena sipped her champagne, frustrated. Was it possible

272


he didn't find her attractive? Maybe he was gay.

'Well, it's fifty million dollars' worth of business,' she
said. 'That's worth getting excited about in my book.'

John Metcalf smiled, indulgent and infuriating. 'Maybe
so, for music,' he said. 'If! could bring a movie in so cheap,
!'d be a happy guy.'

'Oh, these numbers are chickenfeed to you,' she snapped
sarcastically.

'Yes they are,' he said. 'Absolutely.'

She felt a rush of lust. Damn, he was good-looking.
Well-muscled, confident, masculine. His jaw was hard-set
and his lips fairly unremarkable. But there was something
about him, she wasn't sure.., she didn't know . . .

Rowena felt a disturbing confus.ion. She'd only spent a
few days with John Metcalf. She didn't even know him. He
wasn't Michael, was he? Michael was who she loved.
Always and for ever and no matter what.

John Me, tcalf knew nothing about music, nothing about
her, nothing about all the ties that bound her to Krebs. And
he was an arrogant sonofabitch, sitting here telling her the
most important deal of her life was chopped liver!

'I bet you're really selfish in bed,' she said, furious.

There was a pause. Metcalflooked at her over the table,

slowly swallowing his steak.
'Selfish?' he asked.
Silence.

'I have a boyfriend,' Rowena whispered, suddenly
frightened.

'Oh?' Metcalfenquired politely. 'That's nice.'

'I love him,' she insisted.

He tilted his glass towards her, c'ourte.ously. 'Congratulations.'

'I must go,' said Rowena, flustered. 'I have to see to the
arrangements for soundcheck. I'll get a cab.'

'Sorry you have to go,' he said, completely at his ease. 'I'll
walk you to the car.'

He opened the cab door for her and stood aside so she
could get in. Rowena turned round to thank him, intensely'

273


disturbed by how close together they were standing.

'It was good of you to take me to dinner, John,' she said.
'Thank you for coming,' he replied. With a barely
perceptible movement, he took hold of her waist, thumbs in
the hollows of her hipbones, his fingers resting on the top of
her ass.

His touch changed everything.

The electricity was instantaneous.

Rowena stared at him, her groin dissolving with pleasure
and panic.

'I'm not going to do anything to you that you don't
want,' he said. 'And when we go to bed, you'll be mine.
And there won't be any going back.'

274


Chapter Twenty-Four


All Rowena's worlds exploded at once.

Everything, suddenly, was falling into place, and everything
was being decided tonight.

She looked out over the ocean of people before her and
below her, stretching out into the night as far as she could
see, small points of light filling, the stadium as the fans
clicked their lighters and held them above their heads. The
gig wasn't due to start for twenty minutes yet, but the band,
eager to amplify the already intense atmosphere, had
dimmed the stadium floodlights, pumped up the huge
house PA system to blare music into the darkened arena,
and turned one brilliant light on the vast curtains sealing off
the stage.

The Atomic Mass logo - a spinning molecule in gold on
blue - shone like a massive raised beacon above the
audience, demanding homage. Rowena could make out
waves in the crowd, as people started to slam to Guns n'
Roses 'Paradise City'. She paced, alone in the executive
box. Michael Krebs was locked in Mirror, Mirror, recording
with another huge band. Rowena had asked him to
come, but he was adamant- nothing took Krebs away from
a record. She'd resented it; for Atomic Mass, he might have
made an exception. If she'd played mother to their careers,
Michael Krebs had played father.

Can't we be together in anything?

The Musica board should have been here an hour ago.
Atomic Mass, her band, her boys. They were poised on a
knife-edge between 'major act' and 'legend'. It had taken
everything she had to sell out this gig; and Musica would


275

have to grin and bear an unprecedented promotional cost.
The world was watching this evening. I can't help you now,
she thought. Do or die, lads. Do or die.

Then, Musica. Everything she'd struggled for all her
adult life. Luther was profitable; Atomic were the biggest
band on the planet, at least for the next five minutes; and
Picture This was a movie/music deal even Peter Paterno
might have been proud to sign.

One thing's for certain, Rowena admitted to herself.
That's it. That's the best I can do. If
they didn't give her North America now, they never
would. It was that simple. And when - if?. -Joshua
Oberman finally made it to the gig, he'd tell her in person.
She didn't know if that was good or bad.

The tension mounted in the Coliseum. The slow, heavy
chords of Metallica's 'Enter Sandman' filled the night air,
and Rowena shivered with joy as tens of thousands of voices
took up the anthem:


Exit light

Enter nigh. t

, What an awesome lyric, she thought. She swayed to the
grind of the bass, her long legs taking up the beat, her
golden hair sweeping from side to side. The excitement in
the air was so strong you could taste it. Where was
Oberrnan? And where, she wondered with a strange ache of
longing, was John?

The final song blasted out of the PA. It was AC/DC. She
couldn't help laughing at the irony.


It's a long way

Such a long way
It's a long way

To the top

If you wanna rock 'n' roll . . .


Topaz leant back in her chair and tried not to cry. Damn it,
take it like a man. I mean take it like a woman! Do some work or

276

go for a walk. I mean do something, just don't sit here
moping . . . just don't . . .

It was no use. A large tear trickled down her cheek, and
then another, and another...

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a great wrenching
sob. Embarrassed by her own reaction, and frightened one
of the assistants stationed outside her office might see her,
she rose from her desk and went to stand by the window,
and then, with her back to the door, she leant wearily
against the sill and wept.

Ten minutes later she wiped her face clumsily, pulled on a
pair of shades and rang for a cab.

So I'll take the rest of the day off, she thought grimly, and
I'll cry or whatever and I will deal with this. I'll congratulate
Joe like a professional. OK, it hurts like hell. Big fucking
deal. Mama always said I had eyes bigger than my belly...
Bottom line, if | don't have what it takes, it's better to find
that out now than when I'm fifty.

The phoned buzzed. Oh Jesus Christ, get lost.

'Hey, Topaz.' Marissa's jealous, smarmy voice greased
its way down the line. 'I heard. You must be devastated.'

Topaz glanced out of the window at the tiny yellow
ladybug cabs, crawling along Seventh Avenue in the
impersonal sunshine. She felt a little welcome steel creep
back into her soul.

'What can I tell you, Marissa? Shit happens. I'll get
another chance.'

'Well, I wouldn't count on that, honey. American
Magazines moves on real fast . . . Joe Goldstein calls the
shots now.'

'And he's a great man to do it, ' Topaz said firmly. 'I'm
looking forward to being a part of his term.'

Marissa sighed theatrically. 'Oh, Topaz. I don't think
you should rely on . . . how shall I put it? A close working
relationship that you had in the past . . .'

Topaz's knuckles were white as she gripped the phone.

'Past, present and future, sugar,' she said sweetly. 'In fact,
as the second most senior MD, Joe's asked me to look at

277


redefining the roles for our star reporters. We both think
that your talents are just wasted on the society circuit,
babe... Joe thought you'd be ideal for a major series in Economic Monthly, something serious you could get your
teeth into.'

'Like what?' asked Marissa warily.

'Like six months covering the Midwest farming depression,'
spat Topaz. 'That way you could report on things
closer to your own level. Such as pig sewage.'

She slammed the receiver down,-feeling a little better.
The phone rang again.

'Look, whoever you are, just fuck off, OK?' she shouted.
'I'm not in the goddamned mood!'

'That's a nice way to greet an old friend,' said Joe mildly.

'Oh, shit,' said Topaz, blushing. Tm sorry, Joe. I didn't
, know it was you.'

'Evidently,' he said.

Topaz bit the bullet. 'Congratulations, Joe. Really. I
mean it. The best man won, and all that stuff.., you'll do a
great job . . . obviously you'll have my resignation by the
end of the week, and no hard feelings.'

Joe chuckled. Topaz flushed a deeper red, this time from
resentment. There's no need to laugh at me on top of everything
else. Winner's privilege, I guess.

'Of course you're not going to resign, Rossi,' he said.

'Oh yes, I am,' said Topaz stubbornly. It'll be a cold day
in hell before I report to you, Joe Goldstein, she thought.

'Topaz Rossi,' Joe insisted, 'I do not accept, and American
Magazines will not accept, the resignation of the best
print woman in the country.'

'If I was the best, I'd have got the job,' snarled Topaz,
ashamed of herself but unable to be gracious.

'However, 'Joe continued, ignoring her completely, 'we
do need to talk about your future role. Why don't you come
over to my place tonight? I'll cook something and we can
discuss it over dinner.'

With a herculean effort, she swallowed a hundred
smart-ass replies.


278

'Good idea. I'll be there at eight thirty,' she said.

'I look forward to it,'Joe said, and rang off.

Oh Joe, Topaz thought miserably. My best friend and
worst enemy. I wish you were here. Then I could cry on

your shoulder and kick you in the balls at the same time.
The phone rang again.
'What? What?' she shrieked.

'Uh, cab, Ms Rossi,' whispered a terrified receptionist.
'Oh. Cool,' said Topaz, a little gruffly. Tll be right

down. '


The private jet was halfway from Stockholm to Los
Angeles, and the four men were still arguing.

'But that was your point six months ago, Hans,' said
Joshua Oberman. 'And Luther's already turning a profit.
Not only that, but she's got three or four baby acts that are
selling albums, not singles. I wanted a presence in domestic
repertoire, and she is delivering.'

The president of Musica Holland and new group director
of Finance glowered at him with all the anger fifty-three
years and a red moustache could muster.

'It's insanity, putting an A & R man in a senior corporate

job,Joshua. Name me one example where it's worked out.'
'Roger Ames at PolyGram.'
'Apart from Roger Ames.'
'Clive Davis at Arista.'
'Those are two freak instances,' said Hans Bauer.

'David Geffen,' said Josh Oberman. 'Rick Rubin. Russell
Simmons. Charles Koppleman . . .'

'You can't put a woman in charge of North America!'
Maurice LeBec objected.

The old man glared at his executive ommittee.

'Well, by my watch, you have three hours to persuade me
not to, gentlemen,' he said.


It was early evening in Manhattan, and the summer air was balmy and cool, rustling the branches of the trees in Central
Park. As far as the city ever feels relaxed, it was relaxed in'


279

New York that May. Topaz watched little children sucking
noisily at their ice creams, and the horses trotting alongside
the park, uncomplainingly hauling their carriages full of
tourists.

She felt weird.

She sat on her apartment balcony, sipping Cristal. She
was wearing a dark green dress by Ann Klein, which fell
invitingly in folds of soft cotton round her magnificently
curvy body, and then cut sharply off at the knees to reveal a
pair of heart-stopping calves. She'd done her hair Renaissance-style,
half of it piled on top of her head in a luxuriant
coil, half tumbling down the sides of her face in long ruby curls. There was a thick gold bracelet on her left wrist, and
jet-black mules from Chanel framed the sexy turn of her
ankle.

She felt rich, and stunningly beautiful.

She felt like a wretched failure.

She hated Joe Goldstein. He'd beaten her hands down.

She wanted to fuck his brains out.

Mind you, I always wanted to do that, from the first
moment I laid eyes on him, she reminded herself. But now,
nqw I should hate him! He cost me my seat on the board, the
bastard... Marissa was right about that one... American
Magazines, like the rest of this town, doesn't cut losers
a lot of slack.

Rowena Gordon, of course, had the world at her
aristocratic feet.

Topaz felt little prickles of hatred crawl across her skin at

the thought of it. The bitch had done everything right.
She'd been born to the right parents, for a start. She'd gone
to a prestigious school. And she'd betrayed her best friend,
who loved her like a sister, at the first opportunity... At
least you can't write 'President of the Union' in that
sparkling biography, she thought with satisfaction.

Across the park, Musica Towers glinted in the sun.

The satisfaction evaporated.

She'd come home, flicked on her wide-screen TV and
been confronted by some inane MTV VJ getting orgasmic


280

over Atomic Mass. What had the bitch done to sell out the
Coliseum? She was damn sure it had been a quarter empty
on Monday. Just wait for the reviews, Rowena. Your band
will be about as hip as Whitesnake.

It was a small measure of comfort, and Topaz took a slow
sip of champagne, trying to banish the vision of her enemy's
triumph. I don't need this, she thought. I won't give her that
final victory. I won't let her sour my life.

She got up and strolled to the fridge, checking her
reflection in the wall mirror. She was a knockout. 'Better
than Joe Goldstein deserves,' she said, smiling. Well, she'd
do it in style, at least. She'd bought two sensational bottles
of wine to congratulate him: vintage Mot et Chandon
champagne and a Chateau Lafite 53. Maybe she'd take off
the bracelet and wear her diamond necklace instead. After
all, she still ran two of the most profitable magazines in the
United States.

When t.he chauffeur buzzed up to the apartment, Topaz
was ready for him.

She blew a kiss at her exquisite reflection, clutching a
bottle in each hand. Wow! The original playgirl of the
Western World. Joe would be blown away.

Oh,face one more thing wkile you're at it, Rossi. You're head
over heels in love with your boss. Again.


The curtain was ripped away from the front of the stage and
hundreds of lasers spun into the sky, crossing and recrossing
in spectacular webs. The,ecstatic screams of about 8o,ooo
girls rent the California skyline. They stayed screaming.

Rowena Gordon, twenty-seven years old, label boss,
businesswoman, A&R goddess, rammed her knuckles into

her mouth to stop herself doing the same thing.
It was absolute, total, mass hysteria.
And then the band came on.


I'm telling you, the men won't work with her,' Maurice
said, purple with rage and struggling to control himself.
Unbelievable. A woman had never sat on the board of a.


28I

major label, never in the whole history of the record
business. It was farcical. The old idiot would make fools of
them all.

'She's not even thirty years old,' moaned Hans, reading
his thoughts.

'She's got no experience in classical,' saidJakob van Rees,
clutching at straws.

Josh Oberman looked at them all, whining, whingeing,
carping. Pathetic. lie remembered Rowena storming into
his office five years ago, hurling an armful of CDs on to his
desk, passionate and furious. What were these snivelling
Eurotrash? Glorified fucking accountants.

'If people won't work with her, we'll just have to replace
them, won't we?' he said with deadly calm.

Maurice and Hans swallowed nervously.

1
	'You'll be able to work with her though, won't you?' he

wondered aloud.

'Oh yes,' said all three men, hastily.

'What do you see in her, Joshua?' askedJakob miserably.

lie fixed the three group presidents with a contemptuous
glance.

'.She's the son I never had,' he said.


Joe Hunter stood centre stage, Zach's guitar howling beauty
into the blackness. Alex was running over to the left-hand
monitors, his bass swinging against his body, greeting the
sea of crazed fans on that side of the stadium. He felt the
glory of it course through his veins. It was better than
power. Better than riches. Better than sex.

He started to sing.


Why don't we start at the end

It's great to see you again

Have you heard anlthing new . . .


The answering roar shook the foundations of the building.

'Hi Rowena,'John Metcalfsaid.


282

Just when she'd thought it couldn't get any better.
'John!' she exclaimed, shocked at how pleased she was to
see him. 'Oh, it's so good to see you, it's so good that you're
here!'

This might possibly be the best moment of her life, and
she found she was delighted to have him there to share it
with her. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, which
threw his large, tanned body into sharp relief. An all-access
crew laminate hung on his muscled chest.

Rowena smiled at the thought of a movie mogul humping
flight cases around; although, if circumstances were different,
he'd be big enough and strong enough for the job . . .

'Quite a show, young lady,' John congratulated her.
'Makes me tempted to try music for a couple of years.'

'Maybe I can find a place for you somewhere,' said
Rowena.

John shook his head. 'Are you kidding? I couldn't take the
cut in salary.'

	'God, you
	asshole,' said Rowena, livid. 'You

fucking...'

'Oh, shut up,' said John Metcalfgently, and gathered her
into his arms and kissed her.

	She didn't even bother with a token protesting squirm.


Atomic Mass were blasting through 'Karla' when the
Musica board finally made it to the executive box, panting
from the effort of climbing so many stairs, even though
hordes of respectful security guards had shown them every
short cut in the book. The group presidents were all
wincing from the violent music and the delirious screams of
the fans; Jakob was trying to hide an unimpressive hard-on
which he'd got on passing two teenige girls, who, mad
with worship, had torn at their shirts so much that they'd
exposed their breasts, bouncing around in time to the beat.
Josh Oberman noticed them too, and wished he was forty
years younger. He was ecstatic with the job his protegee had
done; the scene reminded him of the Beatles at Shea
Stadium.


283

'It's getting closer, It's getting clearer, I don't believe you, I'm
getting out of here,' soared Joe's spectacular voice.

The board stopped dead in their tracks. Maurice, Hans
andJakob were overjoyed. Surely now he would see reason.

Rowena Gordon, managing direc.tor of Luther Records,
lay flat on her back, stretched underneath John Peter
Metcalf III, chairman of Metropolis Studios, kissing him
wildly, pressing herself into his caressing hands. Metcalf
had thrust her skirt up almost to her panties, exposing her
magnificent right thigh.

Joshua roared with laughter. 'How's it going, John?' he
bellowed. 'I see you've met the president of our North
American operations!'


Joe Goldstein liked to think he had the best apartment in

,TriBeCa. It was basically one huge room, with a separate
bathroom. He had stripped the pine floorboards himself and
painstakingly coated them with a dark varnish. The gentle
light from his soft red lamps gleamed on the wood. He sat
on the couch, underneath his poster of Sid Fernandez,
pitcher for the Mets and all-time Goldstein hero. North
wa, rds outside his window the spires of the Empire State
Building stared back at him.

Good, he thought. I'm going to enjoy this.

The bell rang, and he went to open the door. He was
wearing a flannel shirt, beat-up jeans and sneakers.

Topaz stood there in full evening dress, defiant and
nervous and utterly beautiful. Diamonds glittered on her
throat and ears, sending little points of light dancing over
her blue eyes and red hair. Her deep green gown hugged her
bosom and ass provocatively, taunting him. She was

without question the most attractive woman he'd ever seen.
'Jesus Christ,' he said, staggered.

'Don't say that! You're not a Christian,' snapped Topaz,
weak with longing for him. Oh my God, you beautiful bastard.

She pushed her way past him into the apartment, trying
to catch her breath from the sudden rush ofdcsire.

'I brought you a congratulations present,' she said,


284

roughly thrusting the two bottles at him. 'Well done.'

She sounded nearly as awkward as she felt. But what
could she say? It should've been me! Damn you to all hell for
ruining my life! Let's go to bed?

'Come on, Topaz. You're hardly the good Catholic girl,
now are you?' demanded Joe, opening the Mot and
wondering how long he should let her stew before he told
her.

'Don't you insult my fucking religion,' said Topaz,
perhaps not as piously as she might have done.

Joe courteously pulled out a chair for her, and they sat

down.

The mahogany table was covered with silver candlesticks
and pink and white roses, and Joe had set out fresh mango
slices as a starter. He poured champagne into two Lalique
crystal glasses.

'To the director of American Magazines, East Coast,'
said Joe, raising his glass.

Topaz swallowed her anger. Once, just once, she'd allow
him to gloat over her. 'To Joe Goldstein,' she said, saluting
him.

Joe regarded her across the table. Unless he was very
much mistaken, her nipples were erect. All this battling
must be getting to her, he thought. He remembered how
much he'd hated the pushy, masculine bitch that night, and
how furious he'd been when his cock seemed to have other
ideas . . . and how she'd hated him right back . . . until that
one touch had set everything off.., and he remembered
screwing her so hard on that desk, their mutual need so

urgent and demanding that it blocked out all reason...
Topaz licked a drop of mango juice offher lips.

That's it, Joe thought. Forget about'teasing her. If I get
any more turned on, this table is going to lift an inch from
the ground.

'I wasn't toasting myself,' he said shortly. 'That's your

title now. I'm not taking the job.'

'What?' gasped Topaz.

'Don't you understand English? I've been offered a,


285

programming position at NBC. I'll have to drop a rung to
do it, but that gets me into television, which is where I've
always wanted to go.'

Topaz took an unladylike slug of her drink. The room
was spinning.

'So! You just reckoned you'd let me stew for a day, did
you, you asshole?' she demanded, trying to hide her joy. Poor Marissa, she thought bitchily.

'Why don't you shut up,' said Joe thickly, 'and ask me
nicely ifI'll luck you, like you want.me to.'

'I do not,' denied Topaz, unconvincingly.

'Yes you do, Rossi,' said Joe, rising from his chair and
walking round the table towards her. 'Yes you do. You've
been hot for me all day. You're wet for me now. Did you
fantasize about it? Huh? Did you wonder if I'd sit in that big
black chair in the director's office and make you kneel under
my desk and suck me off?.'

Topaz was so aroused she could hardly breathe. She sat
transfixed in her chair, watching Joe come slowly towards
her, a colossal erection straining under his jeans.

'Why should I bother fucking you?' she asked dismissi,vely.
'You're not even a print man any more.'

Joe towered over her, his crotch right next to her face. TII
enjoy making you pay for that,' he said.

Topaz stared at the outline of his cock, and was seized

with a paralysing longing to have it inside her.

'Beg me to fuck you,' said Joe.

'Please fuck me, Joe,' whispered Topaz, dying of lust.

'Louder,' Joe demanded, trying to control the urge to
jump her bones immediately.

'Please fuck me,' she said, shaking with need.

TII fuck you when I'm good and ready,' Joe said, and
then he knelt down and seized her left ankle in a vicelike
grip, and slowly licked the tender hollow under the
anklebone.

Topaz moaned.

Joe worked his way up her legs inch by inch, refusing to
hurry his pace, holding her down if she tried to shove herself


286

against him. Eventually he reached the top of her thighs,
and roughly pulled down her panties.

Topaz tensed. 'Joe... I've never...'

But he could smell the beautiful thick musk of her desire.
'I'm going to give you what you want, Topaz Rossi,' he
growled. Then, as she was shuddering with longing, he
languidly trailed the tip of his tongue back and forward over
her clitoris.

'Oh, Jesus!' Topaz screamed. 'Oh, my God!'

'Don't blaspheme,' Joe teased her. Then he licked her
some more.

'Oh,Joe! I love you! I love you! Oh,Jesus! Please fuck me!
Fuck me!' Topaz begged, insane with pleasure.

Joe's erection was swollen almost to the point of pain.
Continuing to lick Topaz out, he kicked off his shoes and
pants. 'You do want it, don't you,' he said. 'Catholic girl.
You want my Jewish cock in your pussy. Isn't that right?'

Topaz withed against his tongue, completely incapable
of speech.

Joe pulled her roughly offthe chair, and, unable to wait a
second longer, shoved himself inside her, losing himself in
the pleasure of her tight wet heat around him.

They moved together.


'I love you,' said Joe.

'I love you too,' said Topaz.


'You're going to get me pregnant,' said Topaz.

'I know that,' said Joe.


'Will you marry me?' asked Topaz:

'Oh yeah,' said Joe Goldstein, enterin her for the fourth
time. 'Yeah.'

287


Chapter Twenty-Five


Once again, Elizabeth Martin was throwing a party.

Once again, both Topaz Rossi and Rowena Gordon were
invited.

And this time, everyone was watching them.


'You can't get an invite. Nobody can,' Rowena told John.

,
	'If you lived in New York she'd have chosen you like a shot,
but you're from LA. Elizabeth isn't David Geffen or Mike
Ovitz. Running a movie studio won't give you any clout
with her.'

Tll get an invite,' Metcalf told her with supreme
confidence, and he had.

'How did you manage that?' Rowena asked, surprised,
when he rang her a week before the bash. 'That's
impossible.'

'Nothing's impossible,' John teased, refusing to say. Tll
pick you up at eight.'


'What are you going to wear?'Joe asked Topaz. Since they'd
been living together, Goldstein had developed an intense
interest in women's fashion, as far as it related to Topaz.
The style and boldness with which she wore clothes used to
infuriate him, but now he adored it. So what if the look
disturbed her co-workers? Topaz was answerable to
nobody. Topaz was a free spirit. That was exactly why he
hadn't been able to forget her.

'You can wait and see,' she replied.

'You'll be the most beautiful woman in the place,' Joe
said, coming up to her and taking her in his arms.


288

'I haven't told you what I'm wearing yet,' she pointed
out.

'You'll be the most beautiful woman there if you turn up
in a sack, he said, kissing her.


'You can't avoid me for ever,' Michael Krebs said. 'We'll
both be at Elizabeth's party.'
His tone was taut with what Rowena knew to be
controlled anger. For a month now she'd been communicating
with him by fax, talking to Barbara or letting a
deputy negotiate for her. When he called her at home, she
had the answering service take a message. She wanted to let
her relationship with John develop, and that meant not
talking to Michael.

Eventually she'd called him back, in his office, at
11.45 a.m. A nice, safe time when others of his staff might
be there.

She took a deep breath. 'And so will John Metcalf,' she
said. 'Who I'm going out with.'

There was a pause at the other end.

'Good!' said Michael, brightly. 'Congratulations, Row
ena, that's great. But what does that have to do with us?'

'I can't do anything with you any more, Krebs,' said
Rowena, with a slight smile. Some things never changed.

'Of course you can,' he said simply. 'You always did
before.'

'John's different.'

Krebs gripped the phone his knuckles white around the
handset. He couldn't believe how angry he felt. Insulted.
Cheated. Rejected. Of course John Metcalfwas different- a
young, attractive man, single, president of a movie studio,
rich. A guy who made the 'America's Most Eligible
Bachelors' list every summer.

A man richer and more powerful than him.

A younger man.

'Well, it's your choice,' he told her, as casually as he could
manage. 'But I think you're being dumb. We had a lot of

fun.'

289


Unexpectedly, Rowena found her eyes had filled with
tears. 'Yes, we did,' she admitted.

Both of them had an instantaneous vision of the last time
they'd had sex- in a hotel in Munich on the European leg of
the Heat Street tour, when they'd barely been able to make it
inside before ripping their clothes off and grabbing at each
other. Krebs had fucked Rowena standing up, her back to

the wall, while she was still half-dressed.

'Rowena - ' Michael began.

'I have to go,' she said hurriedly, and replaced the
receiver.

It had to end some time, Krebs told himself. I don't give a
damn. It was fun while it lasted, that was all.

Rowena was the one who'd stressed out about it all the

time. He, Michael, had been totally consistent in his
attitude. Debbie was his wife and he loved her. Rowena -
well- he shouldn't have done it, but she was sogood. And he
enjoyed her company, when she wasn't moaning and
complaining and getting weepy on him.

John Metcalf, eh? Well, he was pleased for her.

'Eli, goddamnit!' Krebs roared. 'Where the fuck are my
notes?'


Sometimes you work through a day and don't realize how
tired you are until you sit down. And sometimes you can
work through several years and not realize how lonely you
are until you meet a guy. It had happened to Rowena
Gordon in Los Angeles; first, the nervousness she'd felt
around John Metcalf that none of her other lovers had
provoked; then the simple happiness at finding her body
responding to a man who didn't dominate her; and finally,
the surprise at seeing him at her door every evening, the
flowers that arrived every morning, the endless compliments
and proclamations of love. She'd found herself
extending her time in LA indefinitely, and then, one
morning, Rowena Gordon had woken up in a beautiful
bedroom in Beverly Hills, in her lover's arms, and decided
that John made her happy.

29o


Being with him made her happy. Being paraded in public
made her happy. Getting complimented made her
happy and making love to him made her happy. He
couldn't drive her to the sexual nirvana that Michael could,
but then again, John wasn't married and he was offering
her love.

And she wasn't twenty-two any more. She was kissing
thirty, and she hadn't had a serious relationship since the day
she met Michael Krebs.

Yeah, she was a high achiever. She'd struggled in
London, struggled in New York, and come through both
times. She was the president of Musica North America and
a powerful figure in her chosen industry. Of course, there
was still a long way to go, but she was well on target. Rich
in her own right. Famous amongst her peers. Music
business magazines referred to her by her first name alone
now there was a sign of making it.

But she was unmarried and childless. Another New York
career girl, alone and unhappily attached to a man who
didn't love her back and didn't even pretend to.

Not. I have choicest. Rowena told herself that morning,
looking at Metcalf's handsome face on the pillow beside
her. There was nothing great about being a victim, a role
reversed Lancelot sighing.for an unattainable Guinevere.

She would choose happiness. She chose John.


Topaz selected her outfit with great attention. She'd always
cared about her looks, but.this time it was important. She
had to dress appropriately to her new position as director of
American Magazines, East Coast - the youngest in the
company's history and only the third woman to rank so
highly. Last month People had called her 'the new Tina
Brown' and Topaz had been completely thrilled. Shamelessly
thrilled. If she got another chance to meet Tina
Brown, she wanted to look dynamite for the photo.
Rowena would call that shallow. She called it honest.

Also, she had to be a knockout for Joe. It was the first time
they'd have been out socially since they got engaged.


291

Give Marissa something to write about.

And then she had to look better than Rowena Gordon.
Topaz still burned with resentment whenever she
thought about that woman. The pain of her first betrayal
had faded with time, but the cold arrogance of her attitude
hadn't. She had taken a band from under Rowena's nose, but
after that all the scoring was on the other woman's side.
Musica's success, Atomic Mass, surviving that drugs story -Jesus, how I hate writers that don't check their sources - and
selling out the Coliseum.

She'd wanted to get even, that was all. She was an Italian.
Nobody spurned her and got away with it.

Yet Topaz might have let it go, all the same. She hadn't
been in love with Nate Rosen - though only since she'd
known Joe had she realized that- but she had loved him, and
his death had changed her frantic attitude to life. And with
Joe Goldstein, she was a woman blissfully in love, with a
great career.

But Rowena Gordon had pushed her over the edge again.
It was the day after Joe had proposed to her. The day after
Atomic Mass had played the Coliseum to wild reviews.
Topaz had just got into the office, ready for a very pleasant
meeting with Matt Gowers. After all, Joe had just resigned
and would formally appoint Topaz to the board that
morning. What with Joe, and the job, she was so happy that
day that not even the sight of a triumphant Joe Hunter on Good Morning America had been able to dent her mood.

But then her assistant had come in with a large parcel.
'This came from Luther Records, this morning,' she said. 'I

had to sign for it. Do you want me to send it right back?'

'No. I'll open it,' Topaz answered, curious.

She'd torn offthe brown paper and felt a shock of rage.

It was a Dunlop tennis racket, with a small typed note
attached. The note read: 'Advantage Miss Gordon.'

She picked it up, almost disbelievingly. Three years in the
United States, and Rowena's fucking blue limey blood
hadn't warmed up one degree. She'd never apologized,
never explained, and she treated the whole thing like a

game. She was fucking laughing at her.

That day she decided it was war. She was going to

destroy Rowena Gordon, however long it took her.

You want to play this out? You got it.

Topaz twisted round, checking herself out in the full
length wall mirror. The dress was her first piece of fitted
haute couture, a one-offoriginal, with a price tag to match
but right now, she thought it had been worth every cent.

It was a sweeping ballgown in oyster-pink satin, the fitted
bodice dusted over with hand-embroidered tiny gold beads,
the skirt ruched ov.er folds of stiff gold brocade. Watching
her reflection carefully in the huge mirror, Topaz took out
her favourite ebony combs and caught her hair up in a silken
pile on the crown of her head, pinning it securely in place
and then fixing it with a burst of Elnett hairspray, a regal
style which exposed her long, elegant neck. She added
dangling coral earrings and a ruby necklace, a magnificent
piece from.Cartier which Joe had bought her two weeks
after they got engaged.

'What's this for?' Topaz had asked in delight, when he'd
presented her with the box over dinner at Elaine's. A
woman at the next table had given an involuntary gasp
when Topaz, stunned, held up the perfect string of rubies to
the light.

'Just for being alive,' Joe answered, feeling his heart
almost burst with love at the sight of the tears in her eyes.

Being apart was torture. Every day, when they kissed
each other goodbye, they took too long about it, not
wanting to let go. They met each other for lunch, and one
was always waiting to pick the other up after work. They
walked everywhere holding hands like teenagers. Topaz
sometimes called Joe on his direct line at'NBC and told him
in detail what she wished she were doing to him, so that he
couldn't get up for fifteen minutes because of the erection
surging in his pants. Nate would never have allowed it;Joe
revelled in it. When he got home those evenings, if Topaz
wanted to make love three times, Joe wanted to do it five.
Where Nathan would have pushed her away, Joe asked for'

293


more. And where Nathan had made her feel good,Joe made

her scream.

'I want to have your children,' she'd whispered to him in

the restaurant, and Goldstein, feeling choked up himself,

replied, 'I think that can be arranged.'

They hadn't even made it through the starter before
Topaz called for the check.

'Can I come in now?'Joe yelled from the kitchen.
'Yeah,' she yelled back, spraying on a burst of Joy. She
turned round as he appeared in the doorway, holding up her
skirt with one hand as she slipped into her shoes, a pair of

	heels from Kurt Geiger.

gold

'Do you like it?' she asked nervously.

Joe Goldstein looked his fiancee up and down, slowly,
taking in the delicate pink and gold satin, the sexy earrings,
and the way his rubies sparkled against the creamy backdrop
of her full breasts, pushed up even further by the clever
corsetry of the bodice. Her blue eyes looked anxiously at
him, fringed with those delicate red lashes, and her hair
gleamed softly in the light.

'It's beautiful,' he said neutrally, 'but there's something
missing.'

'What? You think I should take a purse? A purse would be

all wrong with this gown...'

'No. Not a purse.' He handed her a smalljeweller's box

with 'Asprey & Co' written on the top. 'I've been waiting

for the right moment to actually give you this.'

Her heart hammering, Topaz opened the box, and was
confronted with an exquisite engagement ring, a dark
emerald set in diamonds. When she could drag her eyes
away, she saw that Joe had sunk to one knee before her.

	'I know you asked me,' he said, 'but I'm
	a

	traditionalist... Topaz Rossi, will you marry me?'

	'Yes,' Topaz said, 'oh yes, oh, Joe, I love you.'


'You look good,'John said, when Rowena showed him in.

He glanced round her apartment. 'Very New York.'

Rowena had chosen a long slip dress, a narrow silhouette


294

in silver silk by Isaac Mizrahi. She had matched it with silver
leather sandals from Jimmy Choo, a white Hermes scarf and
a silver cross on a simple thong. Her hair was loose, hanging
down her back in a curtain of pale gold. It was a look she
preferred these days, slim and minimalist. A year ago she'd
had her apartment redesigned to match - the Georgian
furniture and English watercolours had given way to spare
Japanese tables, a low couch and rice matting - all the hi
tech paraphernalia of a busy executive taking up the least
space possible.

John noticed the fax machine and phone by the bed, the

slimline stereo speakers on the walls.

'Never stop working, right?'

She took a slim clutch bag from .the dresser and slipped
her arm through his.

'What else is there?' she asked, and he thought for a
second he heard a touch of regret.


Flashbulbs popped around them like out-of-control firecrackers.

Rowena, conscious ofthc press, nodded at Topaz Rossi
with an icy smile. John was already off, working the room
like a pro, but Joc Goldstein was at his girlfriend's side.
Rowcna recognized his picture from the LA trades - the
new VP programming over at NBC, right?

Well, yet again, I outranked you, she thought triumphantly.

She looked at Goldstein with frank curiosity. He was
very attractive, not Topaz's type, she thought. Rossi was
looking sensational; Rowcna was childishly jealous of the
stunning gown, the womanly figure and the breathtaking
necklace. Next to Topaz, her stylish implicity was just
outgunned.

'Good evening, Rowena,' Topaz said pleasantly.

That accent's got thicker since she's been in New York,
Rowcna decided, not bothering to answer.

'Have you met my fiance, Joe Goldstcin?' Topaz continued.
'Joe left American Magazines to work in television. I


295

guess you've heard that I'm the new director for New
York.'

'Yes,' Rowena replied, her tone contemptuous.

Topaz felt her anger bubbling up like oil. Same old
Rowena Gordon, for whom friendship was a matter of
convenience, and low-rent girls stayed, low-rent girls,

however far up the greasy pole they climbed.

'You're not concerned,' she said.

Rowena looked at Topaz, standing in front of her with
Joe's hand circling protectively round her waist, her' engagement
ring glinting on her hand, looking beautiful and
triumphant. She was radiant with happiness, but at the same
time, bristling with defiance. And the older, colder side of
Rowena, the one she thought she had buried, the one that
refused to face up to her first betrayal, the one that had been
prepared to win at all costs, the one that still knew exactly
how to hurt, surfaced, longing to wound.

'Why should I be concerned with you, Ms Rossi?' she
replied, emphasizing the American prefix. 'You mean less
than nothing to me. You're just a journalist, and your
efforts to stop me so far have come to precisely nothing. It's
jtst like the girl I remember at Oxford to get obsessed by
some insignificant quarrel.'

She opened her clutch bag and took out a small spray of
Chanel No. 5, casually scenting her wrists in an aristocratic
gesture.

'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will
never hurt me,' she said with a smile, and then turned away
from them, walking across to John Metcalfand kissing him
on the cheek.

Topaz stared after her for a long moment.

'What a bitch,' Goldstein said.


'Is Josh here?' Barbara Lincoln asked, sweeping up to them
in a barebacked white organza dress which looked stunning
against her black skin. She embraced Rowena on the cheeks
and added, 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'I'm fine,' Rowena told her. 'He couldn't make it, he's


296

getting a little old to be shuttling across the Atlantic.'

'Is it true that they're restructuring the board? Hi, John,
baby, how are you?' she added, leaning forward and kissing
him on the cheek. 'Still looking after my best friend?' She
gave Rowena an approving wink over Metcalfs shoulder.
Barbara was still the only girl she knew who sized men up as
if they were livestock.

'I'm still getting looked after,' John answered. 'Rowena
and I are trying to figure out how to make as much money as

yOU.

'That's a tough one,' Barbara said, her every movement
sending little showers of light out from the diamonds that
sparkled at her throat, wrists and ears. 'I have twenty per cent of the biggest band in the world and the second record
is out in a month. I'm shopping for my own country right
now. Something modest, like Malta or St Kitts.. . but the
board, Rowena. You didn't answer my question.'

Her frienal.jumped, taking her gaze off theman who had
.just entered the ballroom and was standing talking to
Rudolph Giuliani.

'What? Oh, yeah,' she confirmed. 'It's true. Oberman
could be outvoted now, not that the new members are likely
to want to... it's some lawyer from France and an English
management consultant.'

'Should we be worried?' Barbara asked, watching the
new guest detach himself from the ex-mayor and wander
towards them. She knew there had been ob.jections to
Rowena's promotion.

'Not since you signed Atomic Mass direct to Luther for
the second album,'John pointed out. 'Rowena would have
to be a mass murderer to get fired now.'

'Hello, Michael,' Barbara said, greetilg her friend as he
walked up to them.

Krebs kissed her on the cheek.

Rowena stiffened.

'Hey, honey, how's it going?' he asked pleasantly,
adding, 'Hi, Rowena.'

'Oh, the usual,' Barbara smiled. 'Sold-out stadiums, "

297


promoters on their knees begging for multiple dates.'

Michael chuckled. 'Who's tour managing this time? Still

Will Macleod?'

'The one and only,' Barbara agreed. 'Who else? Are we
sitting together at dinner, Rowena?'

'No, she's next toJake Williams,'John said, checking the
seating plan.

Rowena was looking at Michael Krebs, feeling her heart
thudding against her chest. It was the first time she'd seen
him since before she left for LA. He was wearing a dark suit
by Gieves and Hawkes; again, the ebony cloth picked out
those awesome black eyes. The grey hair was a little thinner
at his temples, but it made no difference to Rowena.
Michael Krebs was like Sean Connery, she thought, one of
those men who got more attractive as they got older.

'
	Krebs had barely acknowledged her, and hadn t looked at

her blond escort at all.

I hope he's not going to make a scene, she thought.

'You'll have to excuse him if he gets up to powder his
nose,' Barbara said, grimly.

'Is there a problem?' Rowena asked, worried about her
rhythm guitarist. She knew what that meant.

'Yeah, I'd say so,' the manager replied, giving Rowena a

tiny glance that said, Not here.

'You're the producer, Michael, right?' Metcatf asked.

'You must be working very closely with Rowena on this.'

Krebs turned to face the younger man, his movement
deliberate. 'That's right,' he said, neutrally. 'We've known
each for a while. John Metcalf, isn't it? She told me about
you.

Rowena looked from one man to the other, her smiled
fixed on her face. Out of the corner of one eye she could
see the gossip columnist, Marissa Matthews, hovering
ominously.

Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Michael said politely.

'I should go and talk to the band. Barbara, Rowena,' and to
her amazement he shook John's hand and walked away,
without so much as a backward glance.

Rowena couldnrt believe it. No anger, no hostility,
nothing.

'My lords, ladies and gentlemen,' announced a footman
loudly. 'Dinner is served.'


'You can't let her get away with that,' Joe muttered to
Topaz as they sit down.

'Don't worry,' she said, settling into her mahogany chair
in a rustle of satin and gold brocade. 'This thing will be
finished tonight.'

'Tonight? How are you going to manage that?'

'Just something she said about how I hadn't changed,' she

replied. 'It gave me an idea. Back to basics.'

'What? Tell me, 'Joe asked, intrigued.

Topaz shook her head. 'That would spoil the surprise.' She
smiled at him, and added, 'Lovely flowers, don't you think?'

Goldstein, mystified, glanced at the arrangements of
orchids and.tiger lilies placed on every table. 'What the hell
have flowers got to do with it?' he asked.

'You'll find out,' she said.


This year's surprise wasn't in the form of gifts; tonight it
was the food. Liz Martin's chefs had prepared dishes of such
shameless opulence that every fresh course brought gasps of
appreciation and amazement from the guests. The starter
was a large mound of beluga caviar, served neat to each
guest with a wedge of lemon in individual ice sculptures, six
hundred fantastic mini-masterpieces, each different, little
gleaming fragments of art destined for just a few minutes of
display. Rowena's was a transparent ballerina, supporting
the delicious black pearls over h'er head in an intricate
basket. Joe Goldstein's was a crouchifig baseball player,
cupping caviar in his catcher's mitt. It was followed by hen
lobsters in a sorrel sauce, served with piles of real truffles; a
warm salad of pheasant and grouse; impeccable grapefruit
sorbet, to clear the palate; and finally a luscious dish of
vanilla ice cream, served with a bitter chocolate sauce and
tiny, perfect martins, the birds that were the corporate logo '


299
		for Martin Oil, created out of glazed spun sugar.

		Jake Williams, apparently, had lost his appetite.

		'Try it,' Rowena prompted him, spearing some pheasant

		salad and proffering it to her rhythm guitarist.

		He shook his head. 'Not hungry.'

		Rowena was concerned. In the space of a couple of

		months, Jake had lost over a stone. He was frowning and


		tense, he'd snapped at her all evening, and he'd turned up to

		the most exclusive party of the year in one of Atomic's own

		T-shirts. Totally out of character.
		'I
suppose you're gonna tell me that I shouldn't do drugs,'

		he added nastily, rounding on her.

		She shrugged, sending ripples of silver silk across her

		dress. 'Do drugs if you want to, man. I mean, I've had a few

		tabs orE in my time. It's a.perk of the job, everybody does

	'
	it. The trick is not to let drugs do you.'


Michael found Rowena at the end of the party, while John

was deep in conversation with George Stephanopolous.

'If you come over next week I'll play you the roughs of

the new record,' he said. 'Zenith they're calling it.'

'Zenith. OK, I will,' she replied, waiting for him to say
something else, to tell her he couldn't leave his wife, to tell
her John Metcalf was a putz, to order her back to his bed.
She would turn him down flat.

'Great,' Michael said, his dark eyes expressionless. TIt see

you then. You have a good night,' and he walked offto the
cloakroom.

She watched him go, cursing herself for being so hurt.
'Are we done?' asked John, 'coming up behind her and
scooping her into his arms. Rowena pressed back against his
chest, grateful for his familiar warmth, for the comfort, for
the fact that someone she cared about would make love to
her tonight.

I wonder ifDebbie Krebs sees it like that.


Topaz Rossi and Joe Goldstein were among the last to leave.

Joe couldn't remember when he'd had so much fun outside


300

of a huge Mets victory; he'd spent a golden night being
congratulated by New York's best and brightest on the
NBCjob, and then recongratulated as word of his engagement
spread through the room. Topaz had her fair share of
corporate homage, too, and the dress was a genuine
sensation; in a party crammed full of designer labels, she'd
been photographed for Vanity Fair, GQ, Vogue and Women's Wear Daily, and Liz Smith had asked her for details

of her couturier. Goldstein had fairly burst with pride.
'You'll make a pretty good trophy wife,' he said.

'You'll make an adequate trophy husband,' she shot back,
and they'd stared into each other's eyes for a second,
wanting to kiss, not able to in such a crowd, luxuriating in
the sexual tension.

'Later, 'Joe whispered in her ear.

She had been fairly sizzling all night, her smile effortlessly
charming, her laughter genuine and relaxed, enjoying every
introduction, savouring the .food, joking with all their
friends.

'What got into you?' Goldstein demanded as they came to
leave, taking his fiancee in his arms and kissing her lightly
on the bridge of the nose.

'You did. About four hours ago,' Topaz teased.
'Nothing else?'

'Well, maybe there was one other consideration,' she
admitted, beckoning to him to follow her over to a table in
the centre of the room.

'That's where Rowena .Gordon was sitting,' Joe exclaimed.
'Topaz, what the hell have you done?'

Grinning at him, Topaz reached down into her cleavage,

fiddled about a little, and pulled out a small tape recorder.
'Remember that David Levine interview?'
'Of course,' he answered.

'Well, this hasn't been clasped to my bosom all night,
but - '

'The flowers! You're telling me you hid a tape recorder in
the vase?'

'That's what I'm telling you,' said Topaz, and she smiled. '

3oi


Chapter Twenty-Six


Will Macleod, Atomic Mass's tour manager, strode around
backstage, looking ferocious as usual, and people didn't
mess with him. He was constantly in motion, searching for
something that might go wrong before it happened,
checking the band were OK, sorting out a billion problems
a night ranging from water in the PA to trucking permits to
landing schedules for the private jet, and always, incessantly
checking and rechecking the guest list. His all-access
tour personnel laminate bounced against his chest as he ran, but guards across Europe, America and the Far East rarely
demanded to see it. Basically, you took one look at Will and
you did not get in his way. Not if you valued your mobility.
, It's something of a rule, especially in hard rock, that the
crew's tough exterior conceals warm-hearted family men
who are constantly dreaming of their wives and baby
daughters back home in Alabama. In Will Macleod's case,
the tough exterior concealed a tough interior. He was
single, Glaswegian, and hard as all hell. He cared about
running a good show, he cared about getting paid, getting
laid and getting drunk. He also cared about his mates.
Macleod had no family and 'didn't want one, he was
completely addicted to life on the road, but when he did
make a friend, he stayed loyal to them for life.

Over the course of three world tours, Atomic Mass, and
to an extent their wives and girlfriends, had become his
friends. And so had their manager, Barbara Lincoln.

Macleod was slightly surprised to find himself in this
position. Barbara was about as likely to wind up a friend of
his as a gay rights activist. She was, to say the least, not his

style. For a start, she was a woman, which under most
circumstances would have knocked her right out of the
running. Second, she was a woman who was also his boss.
That stretched the bounds of credibility, as far as Will was
concerned: Third, she was about a million miles away from
being 'one of the boys'. On the (very) rare occasions when
he had the misfortune to encounter a woman on the road -
no, scrap that, to encounter a woman working on the road- a
catering girl, a wardrobe assistant, the rarer-than-hens'
teeth instance of a female truck driver or rigger or
something - at the very least, he expected the lass to bend
over backwards to fit in with the lads, to laugh the loudest at
all the dirty .jokes, turn a blind eye if one of the roadies
wanted to 'entertain' a groupie behind the generator trucks,
swear like a squaddie and generally do her best to blend into
the wallpaper.

Barbara, inexplicably, had refused to do any such thing.
She showed up on the road dressed in Chanel or Armani,
full make-up and often wearing.jewellery. She didn't.joke
around with the crew, and if the boys were reading porn
magazines when Ms Lincoln showed up, they had to stuff
them under sofa cushions. Not that she wasted much time
socializing. Normally, she'd go and see that the band were
happy, then find the promoter and the local record company
rep, introduce herself and get straight down to
business. She would be in total command of the production
office from five minutes after she hit a venue. Watching her,
Macleod was surprised that the phone wasn't surgically
attached to her ear.

He asked the band about it once.

'What you gotta understand aboat Bar.bara,'Joe told him,
'is that she's clever. I mean she is really smart. And she can
make sure that we're not getting screwed financially, with
the promoters and the agents and stuff, and on the record
side- she used to work for the company. So she understands
exactly what's going on, and she also knows them all. We
got a perfect relationship with them, y'know? She takes care
of everything, and she lets you take care of the road.'

303


Will took a lot of convincing. He finally became a fan on the
one hundred and third show of the Heat Street tour, in Rio.
He'd come into the production office to find Barbara,
dressed in delicate black silk, arguing with the promoter.

'Not very practical,' Will said, looking disapprovingly at
her outfit. It was in the nineties out there, it was total chaos
setting up the stage and supervising the dodgy electrical
systems, and most of Macleod's boys had sweat pouring
down their backs. Barbara, barely pausing in her yelling at
Vasquelez, the promoter, turned round to Will, screamed,
'You can keep your fucking mouth shut, I wear what I
fucking like,' and went back on the attack. Somewhat taken
aback, Macleod started to listen to what she was saying.

'I can no afford it,' the guy was whining. 'It is inflation.'

'It is theft,' Barbara snarled, 'and you will refund what

you overcharged, my friend, or we are not going on.'
'You cannot do that, you have contract - '

'Yeah, so do you. And the contract says ten bucks a head.
Not seventeen.'

'You, also, you get more money,' wheedled Vasquelez,
spreading his hands in a gesture of powerlessness. 'I have
more, band has more, everybody is happy, I am an honest
man, I will pay you also - '

'Our fans are not happy, you little luck,' screamed
Barbara. 'I don't give a damn about more money for the
band! We came out here to play for everybody, not for the
fucking rich kids with swimming pools! You go out there
and you announce that anyone with a seventeendollar
ticket can show the stub at the bck gate for a cash refund,
right now, and every new ticket sells for the equivalent of
ten dollars or we are not going on. And don't try anything
on, because I checked the exchange rate before I left the
hotel this morning.'

'Is impossible,' shrugged the guy. 'I cannot do this.'

Barbara turned round to Macleod. 'Will,' she said, 'how
long will it take the boys to get everything packed away?'

'Two hours, tops,' he said, smiling broadly.


3o4

'Great,' she said. 'Have them make a start, will you?'
'No problem, boss,' Macleod said, nodding.

The promoter stared at him wildly. 'No! You cannot do
this thing! There is hundred thousand people waiting! There
will be a riot!'

Macleod looked at the manager, questioningly.

'Will,' she said, 'you saw the ticket price agreement, right?'
'Yeah,' he said.

'Tell me something,' Barbara said. 'It seems to have
slipped my mind. We'd agreed a special ticket price for the
poorer territories, right?'

'That's right,' Macleod said, glaring down at the promoter.

'Uh-huh. I thought so. Could you remind me what it

was?

'Ten dollars in local money,' growled Macleod, enjoying
himsel£.

'Ten dollars. Not seventeen.'
'Definitely not seventeen.'
'Absolutely, definitely not seventeen.'
'Ten dollars.'

'Well, you know what?' Barbara said. 'Amazingly, some
kids in Brazil are being charged seventeen dollars to see
Atomic Mass.'

'By ticket touts?'

'By the promoter. What do you think we should do about
that, Will?'

Vasquelez glanced nervously at Macleod. The Scotsman
towered over him.

'I think we should go on home,' said Will, airily. 'And

make sure to let other bands know about the promoter.'
'Pack up our gear, Will.'

'No! No!' pleaded the little man. 'They will riot! They
will kill me!'

'Really?' asked Barbara, not sounding remotely interested.

Vasquelez gave a wail of deSpair. 'OK, OK. I give the
seven dollars back . . .'

3o5


Barbara shoved her face into his. 'You do that,' she
hissed. 'Exactly the way I said. You give that money back
now, not tomorrow, not next week, right now. And I'll tell
you what else. My tour manager here is going to supervise
it, in case you have any more last-minute problems with
your arithmetic. If you make any mistakes,' she said, with
icy calm, 'he's gonna rip your balls off and shove them

down your throat. Do I make myself clear?'

Vasquelez gulped. 'Yes, sefiora,' he said.

Macleod was beside himself. 'She's fantastic,' he said to
Mark Thomas, when they were packing away the kit that
night.

'Oh, she's the business,' the drummer agreed. 'Best
female manager since Sharon Osbourne.'

Will Macleod became a good friend to his boss and a
trusted ally. They didn't have deep conversations all that
often, mainly because he knew nothing about designer
clothes, million-dollar deals or two-timing lovers, and
she knew nothing about football. On the other hand, when
they did talk, they usually agreed about the important
stuff- the band, the show, the venue and the travel
rrangements. Barbara Lincoln left him to get on with
his job. Right up until this summer, it had been a solid
partnership.

This summer, Jake Williams started taking cocaine.
At first, Will didn't comment. IfJake had been on the
crew Will would have bawled him out the first time and
sacked him the second time. But he wasn't on the crew, he
was the rhythm guitarist.

'Is Jake out of control?' Barbara asked Macleod.

Will hesitated. He knew that as the album was exploding
worldwide, Barbara was less and less able to get out on the
road. Will had become her eyes and ears. She trusted him.
She believed him.

He thought about every beer he'd ever had with Jake
Williams, every football game they'd played, and the
fundamental, basic code of the road. Which includes the
commandment, Thou shalt not get thy mates fired.

306


'No, he's fine,' Macleod answered, and started avoiding
her calls.
Of course, he faxed in gate reports regularly and called the
office, picking times when she'd be busiest and one of her

associates would deal with him. It was a betrayal of trust.
But what the fuck can I do? Macleod thought.

And the band weren't stupid, either. They recognized the
signs, and Macleod knew they didn't like it. At first, it
looked under control: Jake never indulged in front of
Atomic, he rarely indulged at a show, and he didn't talk
about it at all. You could almost ignore it. Almost, but not
quite.

The Heat Street tour wound on and on, moving from the
big arenas to headlining the Monsters of Rock that summer,
to filling stadiums to capacity. As the album sold and sold
around the world, Barbara's office multiplied dates, booking
four nights in cities that had originally asked for one,
and added ftrther legs to the tour as new territories got in on
the game; now they were heading for New Zealand and
Australia, then he had to make room for Japan, Hong Kong,
Taiwan and Thailand, and finally the hot areas newly added
to the international touring map -Jakarta, Indonesia and
Singapore, as well as the Indian subcontinent.

One year turned into eighteen months, eighteen months
became two years, and still there was no sign of stopping.
The crew were now working in shifts, staggering the
three-week vacation periods, except Will who couldn't and
didn't want to go home..The adrenalin rush kept him
hooked. He was chief of the Mongol hordes, in complete
control of this vast juggernaut crisscrossing the world.

Apart from the band and a handful of others, the tour
manager rules over everybody on a touL His authority is
absolute. His word is law.

And Will Macleod was good at his job. He was a fair guy
to work for, and the crew respected him. He made sure that
everyone got paid in full and on time, but if he caught
somebody slacking or committing an unforgivable breach
ofetiqhette, he docked their wages or sacked them. (Selling

307


your allocation of tickets was unforgivable; getting a
groupie to give you head in exchange for some fifth-rate,
no-access pass was not. Feminism had pretty much passed
Will by.) Macleod ran a smooth ship, and he got offon the
adventure and the atmosphere and the camaraderie of the
band and crew.

He also got off on the money. Atomic Mass were
generous, and as the stadiums sold out and the CDs flew off
the shelves, there was suddenly a lot of serious cash flying
around. Merchandizing broke sales records across America,
and Brockum, their T-shirt manufacturers, could hardly
keep up with the demand. Will noticed it everywhere, in
bars, in airports, in newsagents. Wherever he went there
was somebody wearing an Atomic shirt. The gold molecule
on the blue background was becoming as popular as
Metallica's grinning skulls or the Guns n' Roses logo.

Everybody was getting rich. Even on the road, away from
the obvious symbols like houses and cars, you could see
that. One tour accountant turned into three. The singer's
wife was dripping in diamonds. Alex, the bassist, started
wearing a gold Rolex. Zach, the lead guitarist, routinely
ordered bottles of champagne for the whole crew when one
leg was finished, and that ran into hundreds of people. The
band stopped leasing a private jet and bought one of their

own.

AndJake Williams took more cocaine.

Will knew now he'd made a mistake. He shouldn't have
deferred to him, he shouldn't have been too embarrassed to
interfere. The lad was getting sick. He wasn't careful any
more, he kept coming out of the loos with an ugly white
smudge on his pallid skin. If Macleod pointed it out, he'd
curse at him and wipe it away. He was getting painfully
thin; he'd always been slender but nowadays he just looked
anorexic. His clothes hung off him. He would become
mean, nasty and petty when he was high, traits which Will
knew weren't part of his personality. And furthermore, he
had no reason to stop.

Jake Williams had no boss and he was making hundreds


308

of thousands of dollars a month. He could run a full-on
addiction to every drug known to man and service his habit

to his heart's content without even noticing the cost.
For another two months, he still played OK.
Then he started to miss rehearsals.
Then he started to fuck up onstage.

Yesterday, for the first time since Macleod began working
with him, Jake missed a flight. Will sent the band on
ahead and booked two first-class seats on the next plane to
Rome. Then he tore back to the hotel and only managed to
get into Jake's room by a succession of lavish bribes and
heavyhanded threats. He found his guitarist passed out on
the bed, his gaunt body half dressed, a syringe jutting out of

his arm. Macleod pulled it out as gingerly as he could. Smack.Jesus, it was heroin now . . .

The local doctor, called and even more lavishly bribed to
keep his mouth shut, roused him and gave him an emetic to
make him throw up.

'You can thank whichever god it is you worship that he's
alive,' he told Will, who'd seen this story before and had
never known a happy ending.

At least it wasn't an overdose. Macleod dressed Jake
himself and dragged him half-conscious to the plane, got

him strapped in and told the stewardess he was sick.

He had to do something. Fast.

His heart in his mouth, Macleod called Barbara Lincoln at
home.


'Can I speak to Joshua Oberman, please?' Topaz Rossi said,
politely. In front of her, the huge glass windows of the
sixtieth floor revealed the island of Manhattan, pread out
below her. If she turned to her right, she'could see Musica
Towers, the tall building by Central Park glinting in the
light of the sun.

It looks so tranquil.
Not for long. 'Yeah?'

Topaz smiled at the gruff voice, intrigued to hear what


309

Rowena's boss sounded like. Old, crabby, intelligent.

'Mr Oberman, this is Topaz Rossi at American Magazines.
'

'I know exactly who you are,' Oberman said coldly. 'And
I presume you have a good reason for making this call.'

She smiled. 'Yes sir, I think I do. We've had a reporter out
on the first leg of Atomic Mass's Zenith tour for a month,
and we plan to run a big story in next week's Westside magazine on Jake Williams' addiction to heroin and
cocaine. '

There was a pause.

'No comment.'

'I understand that, Mr Oberman. I'm just calling for the
record as to Musica Entertainment's official policy on the
use of illegal narcotic drugs.'

'Policy? We don't permit it or condone it. Obviously,'
Oberman snapped.

'So if an employee of your company was encouraging a
musician to take illegal narcotics, that would be grounds for
instant dismissal?'

'Yes, but none of my employees would ever do any such
,thing,' Oberman barked. 'Is that all, Ms Rossi? I'm a busy

man. '

'Thank you, Mr Oberman; you've been most helpful,'
said Topaz sweetly.

She hung up, grinning.


Barbara walked the last hundred yards or so along the Paseo
Virgin del Puerto, where the cab had been forced to drop
her because of police barriers, towards the Vicente Calderon
Stadium, looming huge in the deepening twilight, floodlit
from all sides. Music was blasting into the street from the
PA, the earth-shaking rap/rock of House of Pain at the
moment. Fans were out in their thousands, clogging the
streets, crowding the various entrances to different sides of
the stadium, sitting on the concrete with beer and hotdogs
and joints, swarming round the bootleg merchandizing
stalls, yelling in Spanish and various other languages. She


3Io

had her laminate, hanging round her neck on an inconspicuous
black cord, tucked safely inside her shirt. In fact, she'd
tugged the little plastic square down between her breasts
and was using her bra to clip the cord against her chest, so it
wouldn't flap. If one of these kids saw she was wearing a
laminate, they might very well rip it offher and that would
be it. She'd never get backstage without a pass. She spoke
no Spanish and security at an Atomic Mass gig these days
would be adequate for the average head of state.

Barbara threaded her way through the fans around the
side of the stadium; backstage had to be over there because
she could see all the generator trucks parked in a monolithic
cluster, thick powercords and rubber-insulated pipes running
from them into the back entrance of the arena. She
loosened her laminate as she got further away from the
crowd, pulling it out of her shirt when she got to the first
row of security guards.

They glanced at it and hundreds of pounds of forbidding
muscle just melted away. Fans crowding round the security
cordon gazed at her in awe and shouted pleadingly at her in
Spanish. Barbara strode into the tunnel leading to the
backstage area, looking for someone she recognized, perhaps
a sign to the dressing rooms or production office.
Crew members scurried about with guitar stands and extra
drumsticks, making little finishing touches to the Atomic
stage set and taking support band gear away. She wondered
how the Knuckleheads, a newish act on as support, had
gone over with the crowd..She'd have liked to see them,
too, but had decided it was best to keep away from the
venue until showtime; any earlier and somebody would
have noticed her and told Macleod, or told Jake, and she
didn't want to give them time to hide him. Nobody knew she was here. She wanted it to stay that way.

She rounded a corner and emerged into catering. Long
trestle tables were set at the back of the amphitheatre, with a
buffet of hot and cold food, huge steaming urns of tea and
coffee, and an icebox with C6kes and beer and mineral
water. Roadies were serving themselves and bantering with

3II


the catering girls as Barbara walked in.

She strode up to the main table and addressed the biggest
guy she could see. 'Will Macleod in here?'

'Not in catering, sweetheart,' he replied, not recognizing

her. 'You can try the production office, about a hundred
yards ahead and to your left, right under the stairs. If he ain't
there, the dressing rooms are on the first landing just up
those same stairs. You can find that OK?'

'Sure,' Barbara said. Score one, she thought. 'I guess . . .
Jake Williams isn't around, is he?'

'Don't waste your time,' the big guy grunted, not
unkindly. 'He's here. But he's not available for business.
He's seen his connection already this evening, you know
what I mean? Will Macleod takes care of his shit.'

'Do you guys mind?' Barbara asked, controlling her
voice.

General shrugs. 'Will keeps him out of our faces mostly,'

the big guy said. 'Yeah, he can be a grade-A bitch, but that's

the drugs talking.'

'Well, that ain't my fucking problem,' said his neighbour.
'He used to be a real sweet guy,' the big man said angrily.
:And he's dying, so make some fucking allowances, would
you?'

'Thanks, I appreciate it,' said Barbara, walking away.
The sky was darkening out front, she could see it behind
the stage scaffolding. She'd never been to this venue before,
but most backs of stadiums are the same: expanses of
concrete, the constant smell of petrol, people rushing about,
groups of roadies manhandling huge flight cases so heavy
they need wheels.

A roadcrew in operation is an impressive sight, like a
colony of strong worker ants with beer-guts. They can raise
a vast stage set in an afternoon and tear it down in two
hours. You don't get in their way when they're moving
gear. Barbara scattered out of the path of several guys and
thus got slightly lost, but eventually found the production
office without too much hassle. To her left, the way out to
front of house was being illuminated by coloured

312


spotlights, racing round the stadium. They'd stopped piping music to the PA.

Her watch showed thirty minutes to showtime.

Barbara took a deep breath. Then she flung the door opcYl.

Macleod was bent over a prostrate figure, sprawled on
the couch. Barbara had to look twice to see that it wasJake.
He was wearing his normal T-shirt and jeans, but they hung
off him obscenely, in loose, flapping folds, his ribs poking
through his skin. His emaciated chest heaved spasmodically
as though it was an effort for him to breathe.

One skeletal hand was clasped round a small vial which
Macleod was trying to prise loose; she could see grains of
white powder dusting his hands.

Barbara's hand flew to her mouth in horror.

'Jake's sick,' Macleod growled without turning round.
'Whoever you are, get lost.'

Barbara, shocked rigid, burst into tears.

33


Chapter Twenty-Seven


For the first time since she'd started working, Rowena
Gordon was an unmitigated success.

It hadn't been easy. Finding her first band had been
tough, getting Michael Krebs involved had been tough,
signing an American act had been tough, doing the Picture
This deal had been tough.

But finally she'd come through. She was the first woman
to run the North American division of a major label, many
of her discoveries had reached stardom,and one had reached
the true superstardom that founds empires, something that
happens to one band in a million. She had power, money
and a good-looking boyfriend even more successful than
herself.

But like thousands of men before her, Rowena was
finding that achievement brought its own set of problems.


Tm so tired, I can't think straight,' she complained to John.

'You should move down to LA,' he suggested. 'It's]ust
as good as New York for the record business and at least you

could cut out the shuttle flights every other weekend.'

'I can't do that. All the good bands are up here.'

'You're not a talent scout any more, babe. Since when did
you last have time to go to a club?'

'That's true,' she admitted, feeling old. Luther Records
had a bunch of teenagers finding bands for it now.

'Think of the sunshine. Think of the jacuzzis,' John
tempted her. 'You know what we'd be doing if you were
here this evening? We'd be out at my house in the hills,
naked, in a warm hot tub in the open air, looking at the stars


314

and sipping champagne.'

Rowena tried to imagine it. Her first three months as
division head had been more physically and emotionally
taxing than she could possibly have imagined. Running
Luther as a one-man outpost, and even heading up a small
team that shovelled product into somebody else's pipeline,
was a whole different ballgame to this.

She was supervising the birth of a seventh major American
label. That meant having to make decisions every
minute of every day, about things she'd never have dreamt
of dealing with before. At Luther her only concern had been
music. At Musica North America, her job involved
marketing, promotion, budgeting, tax structures and distribution.

Rowena found herself picking between haulage systems,
flying to Detroit and Minnesota to meet with truck
companies. She had to set whole days aside to talk to
investment bankers and accountants. She had to become
competent to judge advertising agencies and indie promotion.
Her days seemed to melt one into the other, in a sense
of urgency and unremitting rush. If John hadn't insisted
they spend time together at weeknds, she wouldn't have
had any free time at all.

And now, Atomic Mass's second album, Zenith, was
nearly finished.

'Feeling warmed up, kid?' Josh Oberman cackled, in
town on a flying visit. 'Because the fun's just about to start.'

Initially he'd wondered whether to mention Topaz
Rossi's call to Rowena, but decided against it. No point in
bothering her with that venomous littlejourno now, when
they were under such pressure. She was only trying to stir
things up, and Joshua Oberman never Went for hype.

Rowena groaned. 'Don't you think Frank Willis should
handle it? He's in charge of Marketing.'

Oberman shook his head. 'No way After what you did
with that Coliseum gig? Nobody handles this record but
you. '

'Christ,' she muttered, pushing a hand through her hair. '

315


'You haven't been talking to Michael Krebs much these
days,' her chairman added shrewdly. 'That has to stop. I've
heard the final mixes, and they're terrific - they make Heat
Street sound like it was recorded in Joe's bedroom in a
couple of weeks. I want Michael involved in strategy for

radio promotion and tour support.'
'But that's not a producer's job.'
'Krebs isn't just a producer.'


She didn't want to do this.
She didn't want to see him. "
It was unavoidable.

What could she say? 'Boss, I'm uncomfortable with
Michael because I used to sleep with him'? 'I think Krebs
would prefer working with someone who hasn't dumped

' him'? 'I never want to see him again'?
But she did want to see him.
And that was the problem.

America the beautiful. America the free, Rowena
thought as she dressed for her meeting. America, where the
national pastime is reinventing yourself and taking control
cffyour own life.

Hadn't she done that? Hadn't she walked away from one

way of life and carved herselfa place in another? She had all
the accoutrements of the modern American woman. An
apartment of her own, with furniture pared down to the
bare essentials. A regular gym class, where she worked out
in Lycra and Nike. A smart wardrobe of classic basics. A
refrigerator stocked with lots of mineral water, fruit and
vegetables. Everything designed for the Manhattan way of
life; maximum style, maximum efficiency.

Yet Rowena failed the test in one respect. In the most
important respect. Her love life had been screwed up from
the word go. Until she was twenty-two, she'd had a few
boyfriends, a handful of lovers, nice unthreatening boys
whose names she could hardly even recall now. The
boyfriends had often complained that she was driven, she
never made time for herself, she'd never love anyone.


36

Rowena had laughed and kissed them, but her heart was an

impregnable fortress. Not one of them could get through. But when I fell, If el! hard.

Michael Krebs. Everything a first love should not be.
Twice her age. A different religion. A different background.
A different country. The father of three sons. The
husband of his high-school sweetheart.

And the other strikes against him? He was a close
colleague. He was in a position of power over her. He was
insensitive. He was domineering. But they had been good
friends. He had been her mentor. All of which, of course,
had evaporated into thin air when Rowena met somebody
else, because the only way to eliminate Michael Krebs was
to cut him off, cut him out.

Rowena wondered what the hell to wear. Something
plain, but flattering, she decided; if she dressed deliberately
frumpy, Krebs would think she was sending him a signal.
She had to look like this was no big deal He was married,

she had a terrific partner, and they worked together.
What was in the past will stay there.

She picked a loose Armani sweater dress in buttery
cashmere and teamed it with sandals and a thick wooden
bangle, brushing her hair to one side and choosing a bare
foundation with a muted berry lipstick; a natural, stylish
look, nothing too provocative. She finished it off with a
spritz of scent: 36o°, by Perry Ellis, a clean, fresh fragrance.

Yeah. That's perfect, Rowena told herself, heading out of
the door.

She looked put-together and in control.

She could handle this.


'Hey, it's good to see you again,' beamed Amy Tritten, the
Mirror, Mirror receptionist, with complete insincerity
when Rowena's white Lotus Esprit pulled into the parking
lot. She was walking across to the main studio with a sheaf
of papers, immaculate in a navy Adrienne Vittadini suit.
None of the women who worked with Krebs had ever been
glad to see Rowena Gordon.


317

'Did you want Ms Lincoln? Because she called to say she
needed to see Michael right away, but she can't get here for a
couple of hours."

'No,' Rowena answered, wondering why Barbara
needed to see Krebs so urgently. 'I have an appointment
with Michael to discuss the new record.'

Amy smiled s!ightly. 'He's in the office. I'll take you.'
Rowena followed the younger woman through the
studio complex, trying to calm her nerves, smiling brightly
at all the engineers and technicians who waved hello. This
was going to be OK. Actually, it was a good thing that they
have this discussion. She could use some help with the Zenith launch right now, and Michael was an expert on
radio. He seemed to be able to tell what programmers
would go for merely by looking at a CD.

She was shown into the office. Krebs was drinking a cup
of coffee, talking animatedly to a pretty woman in her late
thirties, her sleek brown hair cut in a neat bob. As Rowena
walked in, she gave her a friendly smile.

'Rowena, I'm glad you could make it,' Michael said.
'Have you met my wife?'


How she got through that day, Rowena could never figure
out.

Deborah Krebs was just the start. Not a bimbo, not a
frump, not a bitch; an attractive, intelligent, pleasant
woman, who took an interest in Rowena's career, and who
obviously loved her husband. She had one hand in his
throughout their conversation; less a signal of ownership
than the relaxed, natural posture of a woman completely at
ease with her partner.

Rowena had felt a fist ofjealousyclutch at her stomach
with almost physical force. She felt her legs tremble. For a
second, she couldn't breathe.

'Debbie, right? It's nice to meet you,' she said.

/nd at that moment she blessed every unhappy moment
she'd spent at an English boarding school. The old reflexes
snapped into focus: composure, composure, composure. She


318

told his wife how much she'd heard about her. She asked
meaningless questions about the health of her boys. She
rhapsodized about John Metcalf.

And she avoided Michael's eyes.

When they moved on to Zenith, Rowena took notes,
knowing that Oberman would ask her about the meeting
and she wasn't registering a single word Michael said. She
didn't hurry, she didn't rush, and when she got up to leave
she shook both their hands and told them that they must all
have dinner when John was next in New York. All the way
across the complex to her car, she had a happy, contented
expression on her face, like someone who's just finished a production meeting with an old friend. And when she
finally, blessedly, pulled .out of the parking lot, she still
didn't cry. The pain was far too deep for that.
But there was worse to come.


She knew,something was wrong the moment she walked
through the doors.

At a.m. on a Wednesday morning, Musica Towers
should be buzzing-job candidates waiting anxiously in the
foyer, bikers dropping off DATs and artwork, visitors
being shown up to offices and her motley crew of staffers
running everywhere. But today there as nothing. The
lobby was completely empty, the black polished marble of
the walls and floor ominously silent. Not even the duty
receptionist was at the front desk.

Has there been a fire or something? What the hell's going
on? Rowena thought.

At that moment, a security guard in the Musica Entertainment
uniform, accompanied by a short man in a dark
suit, marched into the lobby from thb ground-floor cor

ridors. She didn't recognize either one of them.
'Ms Gordon?' asked the man.
'Yes,' she replied, suddenly scared.

'My name is Johnson. I'm with Harman, Kennedy and

Co. '

Her heart contracted. What in God's name did that mean?'

39


harman, Kennedy & Co represented the parent company's
legal affairs.

'I am here to inform you that your employment with
Musica Entertainment has been terminated with immediate
effect.' He walked forward and handed her a small sealed
envelope. 'Furthermore, this letter notifies you of a breach
of-contract suit being brought against you by the company.
The guard and I are to supervise your removal of any

personal effects you may wish to take from your office.'
'What?' Rowena gasped.

'I am furthermore required to inform you that you are to
cease and desist from claiming to represent the company in
any way whatsoever. Your security classification and
system password have been revoked. Any papers pertaining.
to company business which may be at your home or
1elsewhere in your possession must be returned to Musica
Entertainment forthwith, or the company will take legal
action to recover them.'

'I want to speak to Joshua Oberman,' Rowena said.

She was standing paralysed. This could not be happening,
it just couldn't. What the hell was the reason for it? She'd
spoken to Josh two days ago and he'd been fine. God in
heaven, her boss was one of her closest friends!

'I am acting under direct instructions from Mr Ober
man,' the lawyer replied. 'If you care to open that letter,
Ms Gordon, you can check his signature yourself.'

With trembling fingers, Rowena ripped it open. She
couldn't take in the official-looking type, but Oberman's
spidery hand was unmistakable at the bottom of the page.

'I see,' she managed. Then she lifted her head. 'I do have
some things I want to remove from my office,' she told
them in a clear voice. 'If you could take me up there, please.'

Thank God for the executive elevator, she told herself as
they stepped out on to the twenty-fourth floor. She knew
instinctively that she had to behave with dignity right now;
whatever the luck had happened, she, Rowena Gordon,
was not about to run sobbing from her own company like a
postroom boy caught stealing stamps. Nevertheless, only

320


shock was keeping her upright. The humiliation of being
frogmarched upstairs in front of the rest of the staffwould
have overwhelmed her.

As it was, when she reached her own office and saw her
secretary, Tamara, standing weeping outside, she barely
retained control.

'It's OK, Tammy. Nobody died,' Rowena told her.

She wanted to ask the girl if she knew what was
happening, but there was no way she'd do it in front of these
men. While they watched, Rowena took a plastic crate and
packed up all her personal stuff: the printed note that came
with Michael's flowers the day she'd arrived in New York;
her personal platinum records, presented to her by Musica
for Roxana, Bitter Spice, Steamer and Atomic Mass; a
photo of herself and Joe Hunter at the launch of Heat Street, a

cartoon Barbara had clipped for her. Nothing much. Christ Almighty.

She felt Tammy thrust something into her hand. A sheet
of newsprint. Without looking at it, Rowena folded it up
and put it inside her desk diary.

'You have my home number, honey, right?' she asked
her loudly.

Weeping, Tammy nodded. Rowena put a hand on her
shoulder. 'It'll work out,' she said gently, and turned to the
two men.

'Right, gentlemen,' she said. 'I'm ready if you are.'


The sense of unreality stayed with Rowena all the way
home as she threaded her way through the midday traffic on
Broadway up to West 67th Street. The doorman touched
his cap to her as she entered her apar.tment building and
handed her a small parcel, neatly wrapped in brown paper.
When she unlocked her door and shut it behind her, she was
still half dazed from shock.

Automatically she put down the orange plastic crate,
thinking how strange it was to be in her aphrtment in the
middle of a weekday. She reached for her diary and took out
the piece of paper Tammy had slipped her. It was the cover'


32I

of the new issue of Westside. Rowena unfolded it, and started

to read.

As she did so, she felt herself swaying. The whole room
seemed to go dark.

DETONATION: HOW ATOMIC MASS BLEW

UP JAKE WILLIAMS, read the headline. Underneath
was a picture of the guitarist, obviously taken illicitly,
slumped on the side of a flight-case, his eyes wild, his body
skeletally thin. Next to that, she saw with dawning horror,
was a picture of Rowena, looking poised and relaxed in the
silver dress she'd worn to the Martins' party. There were
several pull-out quotes in the middle of the text, but the one
that screamed up at her said, Do drugs if you want to . . . it's a
perk of the job.

Unsteadily, Rowena took the small parcel the doorman

had given her and opened it.

Inside was a small silver cup, a replica of a sports trophy,

and a note.

It read: 'Game, set, match and championship.'

322


PART THREE - WAR

In the Wall Street offices of Maughan Macaskill, the
prestigious investment bankers, Gerald Quin stared at his
Quotron screen. It was flashing up a takeover: Mansion
Industries had bought out Pitt Group, a small magazine
company based in Minneapolis. The deal was a tiny one, scarcely worthy of the market's notice. But it interested
Gerry.

Everything Mansion did interested Gerry.

Quin vcas twenty-six, happily married, a cure laude graduate of Wharton Business School and a skilled analyst.
He was a rising star at Maughan Macaskill, and his
specialization was tracking the movements of big conglomerates,
predicting what they might do next. Months of
harrowing research hell in the company library, grunt work
on structuring deals and an instinctive feel for what makes a
great entrepreneur tick had paid off, and Gerald was very,
very good at his job.

He watched Lords Hanson and White. He watched
Sir James Goldsmith. He watched Barry Diller. He
watched Rupert Murdoch. And he watched Connor Miles
of Mansion House.

Gerald took a sip of coffee from the plastic beaker on his
desk. Th takeover had been hostile, bt Pitt hadn't put up
much of a fight. Who could blame them? David and Goliath
wasn't in it. Pitt Group was an old family company,
running two local papers and a sports magazine. Three
years ago they'd gone public, and recently a stock flotation
meant that the family had -just - lost control. And.
Mansion's all-encompassing, predatory eye saw that as an.

325


open invitation.

Mansion Industries. A monolith so vast it crisscrossed the
entire globe, and yet most people had never heard of it. Of
course they knew about the individual companies it owned:
Pemberton Diamonds in South Africa; Freyja Timber in
Sweden; Natural Foods in France. Connor Miles was a
bottom-fisher, like Larry Tisch, which was to say he
bought undervalued companies cheap, then broke them
down and sold them offor merged them into each other for
economies of scale. Tradition, staffpolicy, product quality - all these meant nothing to Miles. Money was the only
bottom line. On every company he took over he imposed
his own supervisors, and in ninety per cent of cases fired the
incumbent management. Who cared if they'd been there for
generations? If they couldn't give Mansion the profits they

' demanded, they were out. End of story.

In the business community, Connor Miles was feared.
In the banking community, he was admired. And Gerald
Quin was his number one fan. To watch Connor Miles at
work, he thought, was to watch the shift in world profit
centres: after the war, Mansion had been heavily into
construction; in the sixties, pharmaceuticals; in the seventies,
computing; in the eighties, any upmarket quality
product - God, the eighties was a great decade, you made
money just breathing - and in the nineties, entertainment
and leisure.

He knew their big shopping spree wouldn't start for a few
months. But Pitt Group was one of the first symptoms,
.although it was too small for most analysts to notice.

But Maughan Macaskill noticed,, Quin thought, and he
smiled.


	326
	" '

Chapter Twenty-Eight


As far as Topaz was concerned, it was over. She put
Rowena Gordon out of her mind. There were a million
other things to think about.


'Temple wedding,'Joe said. 'We're getting married under a
wedding canopy and that's it.'

'But you haven't been to a synagogue for years. You're
not religious,' Topaz retorted, outraged. 'We're getting

married ir St Patrick's Cathedral.'
'No way.' Yes way.'

They settled on a justice of the peace, with a rabbi and a
priest blessing them afterwards.


'Have you got any plans for restructuring the division?'
Matt Gowers asked his new director.

'How long have you got?' she replied, crossing a terrific
pair of ankles in Ann Klein heels.

Gowers mentally cursed the fashion for long skirts, but
part of him was relieved to see R0ssi bang up-to-date as
usual. Her flair for fashion had pushed American's women's
titles to the front of the newsracls; refusing to use editorial
space on see-through bras, designer grunge or thigh-high
minis designed with an anorexic teenager in mind had won
them a lot of friends amongst American women, who'd had
it with being told to aspire to a body shape biologically

impossible for most of them.

'Try me,' he offered.

'OK,' Topaz said. 'I want to rehaul US Woman, close


327

down White Light altogether, take Westside national and start
an entertainment glossy to rival Vanity Fair, except we
won't bother with stories about businessmen - ours will be
wall-to-wall stars.'

'Nate Rosen never tried anything so radical,' her boss
commented.

Topaz shrugged. 'I'll need your support, Matt.'

'You have it,' said Gowers, mildly amused at her
boldness. 'Aren't you getting married soon? You're going
to be pretty busy.'

'Ain't that the truth,' his director answered with feeling.


Tve moved house so many times I can't do it again,' Topaz
complained. 'What's wrong with your place?'

'It's not big enough. Neither is yours.'

i
	'They were big enough for us before.'

Joe pulled her to him, running a large tanned hand across

her stomach. 'They're not big enough for children,' he said.
'Children?' she repeated.

'Yeah,' Joe said, grinning at her. 'You know, sons,
daughters. The indispensable accessory for the modern
married couple.'

She picked up a beanbag and threw it at him, and
Goldstein reached forward with a lightning thrust, grabbed
her wrist and twisted her underneath him. Topaz felt him
hardening on top of her as they stared breathlessly at each
other, smiling, eyes alight with desire.

'Let's practise, 'Joe murmured, hands reaching down to
unbutton her silk cardigan.

She remembered that summer' as one of the hottest,
stickiest, busiest, most terrifying, aggravating, exhilarating,
passionate times she'd ever spent in her life.


Work exploded. Financial projections, design reworks,
marketing changes - it was a miracle she ever got out of the
building. But the restructuring was screaming to be done
and Topaz had decided to do it. She was the boss now, with
no one but Matt able to countermand her, and at twenty328


eight she'd learnt to trust her own instincts.

Some things were painful, like making the staffon White
Light redundant. But the magazine had never recovered
from the Atomic Mass fiasco, and it was better to cut the
company's losses. Topaz made as much effort as she could
to place employees elsewhere in American and see that the.
journalists got good settlements, but she was determined to
act like a businesswoman. The decision was final.

Some things were difficult, like rehauling US Woman over the strenuous objections of the editorial team. But
Topaz fired the editor himself and talked most of his
colleagues round, with demonstrations and presentations.
By the time she was through, they thought it had been their
idea in the first place.

And some things were your basic nightmare. Like
starting a new glossy from scratch and changing Westside to
a national. The new title was called Stateside and Topaz
envisaged.it as a Village Voice for the entire country,
encompassing radical views and underground culture from
San Francisco to Dallas, Pittsburgh to Detroit, as well as
New York. For both these projects, Topaz took over three
empty offices on the thirtieth floor and converted them into
a war room, where a crowd of writers and executives could
be found any given hour of the day, brainstorming. The
best ideas were chalked up on blackboards and left standing
around the room, and the atmosphere was so inspirational
that editors from existing magazines wandered in to steal
ideas.

Josie Simons came up with the best one. A major feature
in every issue of the new title, Impact - 'Not Size Eight' -
which profiled women who didn't fit the. supermodel
straitjacket, or were older than twent3-five, or came from.
ethnic backgrounds; strong, beautiful women from all over
the world and lots of them.

'Unadulterated sex bombs,'Jason Richman was heard to
remark, and there were sighs of satisfaction from every girl
in the room.

'We'll give real women something to aim at,' Josie said;

329


underlining How Diana Looks Better When She Puts ON
Weight, and placing a picture of Drew Barrymore next to
ones of Felicia Rashad from The Cosby Show and Sharon
Stone at her fortieth birthday party.

'That,' said Matt Gowers when he saw it, 'will sell millions.'


Her home life exploded too ....

Joe and she seemed to fight about everything. The
wedding. The reception. The honeymoon. Where to buy a
house.

'I've got a lot of friends. I want them to share this with
us,' Joe said.

'So do I, but I don't want a circus,' Topaz insisted.

'Let's go skiing in the Alps,' Joe suggested, bringing
home a sheaf of travel brochures.

'That's about as romantic as root-canal work,' replied
Topaz angrily. 'How could you think of sports on our honeymoon?'

'Yeah? What do you want to do? Europe and museums all
day?'

'I like SoHo. We could get something really cool down
there,' Topaz said. 'It's a great area.'

'You're joking, right? I want a penthouse on Fifth,'
Goldstein replied. 'We can easily afford it.'

Jesus, the stubborn sonofabitch, Topaz thought furiously
asJoe vetoed another idea.

She'll drive me nuts in six months. Tops, thought Joe,
glaring at his betrothed's obstinate expression.

But they couldn't stay mad for ong. The heady swell of
love would overcome Joe or Topaz and the other would
instantly sense it and get turned on, and then nobody talked
for a while. They could hardly keep their hands off each
other; they made slow, gentle love, they played games, they
screwed each other senseless over tables and onthe floor and
up igainst the walls.

'All the therapists say this is the worst way to resolve a
dispute,' Topaz managed, as Joe slipped two fingers inside

330


|


I'm not going through with it.'

'Yes you are,' said Tiz Correy calmly, leafing through the
dummy for Impact. The spacious director's office was a
mess, the immaculate caramel carpet covered with photographs,
clippings and colour charts, and Topaz's kidney
shaped desk piled high with articles, memos and financial
data. For a week now she'd refused to let the cleaning staff
in, because, as Jason Richman pointed out, 'Who the hell
knows what you'll be throwing away?'

The launch was less than a month away and operations
had moved into Topaz's office. Some of her fellow directors
were more than a little bothered by this, but Gowers made it
clear that she was to be given a free hand. Rossi was doing
major work, however unorthodox a method she was
choosing, and her reports to the board already showed
improvements in operating costs.

Back in the fifties, when he'd borrowed three thousand
dollars to start Week in Review, Gowers reflected, he'd been
pretty hands-on himself. And he hadn't done badly.

'Leave Rossi be,' he commanded. 'It's only another
month,' and Topaz's office descended into a maelstrom of
creative chaos.

'Do you know what he just said? He said he can't believe
I'm not taking his name. All this time and he never
mentioned it! He just assumed I'd take his name! He can go
straight to hell,' Topaz exclaimed tearfully.

Tiz tried to keep a straight face. Every week there was a
new crisis, every week the wedding was off, and every


331

week Topaz skipped back into the office like a schoolgirl,
glowing from head to foot with pure happiness.

'And you assumed he'd be happy that you wouldn't,' she

said reasonably. 'You know you should both have discussed

this before.'

'I'm giving him back his ring,' Topaz snapped. She felt
giddy and miserable. The stress must be making her ill;
she'd thrown up every morning this week, almost as soon as
she'd got into the office.

'Call him back, tell him you love him and you're proud to

be his wife, but you want to keep your own name. Ask him

how he'd feel if you wanted him to become Joe Rossi.'

Her boss gave a weak smile at the thought.

'And if he say's it's traditional, tell him he knows you're

not a traditional girl.'

, 'Topaz, have you approved the amethyst headlines for
"Not Size Eight"? Production are crawling up my ass about
it,' said Tristam Drummond, Impact's art director, marching
into the room. 'We're two days after their final deadline
already.'

'Jack Levinson in Sales wants to see you about the Revlon

ads,' her secretary announced.

'Thanks, I'll be ten minutes,' Topaz promised. She passed

a hand across her forehead. 'Amethyst headlines . . .'

'We thought burnt gold worked better,' Tiz reminded

her.

'Henri Bendel are on line two,' her secretary said. 'About

the fitting. They can't do this afternoon, would tonight suit

you?'

Patrick Mahoney, Economic Mon,thly's new editor, walked

in looking harassed.

'Alan Greenspanjust cancelled on me,' he told her. 'I need

a replacement right away. Do you think Joe could find me
someone at NBC?'


Impact and the new look US Woman were previewed to the
trade with great fanfare. They were an instant hit. The first
issue of Impact sold out across the country in forty-eight

hours.

Joe Goldstein and Topaz Rossi were married in a private
room at the Pierre, in front of a hundred guests. They held
hands throughout the ceremony.

The bride wore a cream gown shot through with delicate
gold thread and glittering with tiny seedpearls. Her deep red
hair was caught in ropes of gold beads and hung warm and
lovely down her back, under a long, romantic veil of
antique English lace, secured at the top with a coronet of
white rosebuds. Tiz Correy and Elise DeLuca, her maids of
honour, were dressed in pink Chanel suits. Joe Goldstein
and his younger brother and best man, Martin, wore
traditional black tie and for once Joe looked completely
comfortable in it.

The reception was a riot: their buddies from NBC,
Harvard, American Magazines and Oxford downed a lot of
champagne, ate a lot of smoked salmon and danced into the
early evening. The speeches got bluer and. bluer as the
evening progressed, but most people agreed with Jason
Richman, who called it 'Not so much a marriage as a
merger. '

That night, when they got into the honeymoon suite at

the Ritz Carlton, Joe handed Topaz a large square box.
'Your wedding gift,' he said.

Glancing up at him she opened it. Inside was a long
necklace, a beautiful piece set with fifteen carat diamonds
and exquisite polished beads of topaz.

'I'm sorry it's always necklaces,'Joe said awkwardly.

Topaz reached up and stroked his cheek, her eyes wet
with tears. 'I love it nearly as much as I love you,' she said.

They kissed. 'You've got two wedding presents from
me,' she said. 'One I couldn't bring," because it's in the
garage at home. But I have the other one.'

She reached into her purse and handed him a crumpled
scrap of paper with their doctor's letterhead.

Puzzled, Joe unfolded it and read it. Then he smoothed it
out, looked wildly at his wife; and read it again, carefully,
just to make sure.


333

'You don't mean - '

'I'm pregnant,' Topaz said, smiling at her husband.

For a moment they just stood there, almost drunk with
happiness. Then Joe gathered Topaz into his arms, as gently
as if she were made of fragile glass.

'We'll be together till we die,' he said. 'Nothing can go
wrong now.'

334


Chapter Twenty,Nine


As far as Rowena was concerned, it was over.

Only pressure from Barbara Lincoln staved offa lawsuit,
and she was finished in the record business. All her success
as a talent scout, all her achievements as a businesswoman,
were swept aside in a second. She was publicly associated
with drugs, and no record company would touch her.

'I tried to stop them but I was outvoted,' Josh Oberman
said, calling her the day after. 'These new fucking board

rules. Howcould you have been so careless?'

'Are you crying, Josh?' she asked.

'Of course I'm not fucking crying,' he sniffed. 'You
fucking moron.'

'Come and work for me,' Barbara said, anxious about her
friend. Rowena had lost half a stone and sunk into total
lethargy. She had her groceries delivered and she rarely left
the apartment.

'You must be joking. After what I said toJake?'

'You can't blame yourself for that. As if he paid any
attention to any of us,' the manager replied. 'Look, Will
Macleod decided not to tell me until the lad was half-dead,
but I'm not blaming him, either. What can the crew do if the
band go offthe rails?Jake's in rehab and.we're looking for a
new guitarist. The band have had it with him, Michael can't
work with him.., you didn't pass him a syringe, Rowena.'

'Thanks, but I can't work with you,' Rowena told her. 'I
can't face any of it.'

Her friend shrugged. 'Any time you change your mind.'

'Come and work with me, 'Michael said. 'You can help
me choose my projects and negotiate my deals. I'll give you'

335

ten per cent of my company.'

The offer was worth millions.

'I can't ever work with you again,' she said flatly.

'.Why not? We're good friends. We think the same way. I
don't give a fuck what drugs you did, and I don't have
shareholders.'

'It wouldn't work,' she replied. 'It's over.'

'I want you back. I miss you,' Krebs said.

For a second she closed her eyes, longing for it all to be
different, longing for the blank ache in her heart to go away,
for a return of the hot, passionate joy that had filled every
waking second when they'd started this affair.

'We can't go back,' she said. 'Thank you for everything
you did for me, Michael. Goodbye.'

She put down the receiver.

I

John Metcalf could only guess what she must be feeling. It
happened all the time in his business, of course: scandals,
resignations, corporate coups. He'd been a teenager at the
time of the Begelman affair; on his first steps up the ladder
when Dawn Steel was ousted whilst giving birth. Hollywood
was a monster, and the only emotions worth jack
were fear and greed.

The trouble was that Rowena was guilty. Undeniably so.
If it had been libellous, the paper would have been sued to
kingdom come by Musica's lawyers. He very much
doubted whether some flippant remark by Rowena would
have pushed her young guitarist down the road to addiction,
but that wasn't the point. She'd condoned the use of
drugs and she'd been caught doing it.

She was right, of course. Everybody did do it, especially
in LA, and he doubted the music moguls in New York were
any better. Like she said, you experimented and gave up, or
you didn't give up and you screwed up your life. So she'd
taken Ecstasy in the past, well, so had he. But for years
they'd both been clean.

What was she supposed to say to a young rock star? 'Just
say no'? And the boy would listen to that? 'Don't let drugs


336

do you' was a better way of putting it, in Metcalt's opinion.
Ira blockbusting Metropolis star had that conversation with
him he'd probably say the same thing.

It was going to be difficult, though. Metcalf knew that.
As the youngest studio head in town, he'd made a lot of
enemies just by having hits. What was it Shakespeare
wrote? Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Right. And the
shark pool circling constantly beneath him would drool at
the scent of anything they could use against him. Like a
girlfriend who was blackballed by her entire industry.

Fuck them all, Metcalf told himself. The closest they've
come to love is Heidi Fleiss.

There was no decision to make.

'Book my table at Spago's,' Metcalf told his secretary
loudly after the Metropolis production meeting, while all
his VPs of Production and other development people were
gathering their papers. 'I'm having dinner with Rowena
Gordon. Tlursday at nine.'

The VPs all studiously avoided his gaze, but John wasn't
fooled for a second. Within ten minutes the word would be
out round Hollywood that whatever else had happened,

John Metcalfand Rowena Gordon were still an item.

He called her. 'How are you feeling?'

Tve been better,' she said. Her voice was flat and listless.
'I'm finished, John. I just don't know what to do. I can't do
anything in the music business any more.'

'You can't do anything the way you did it before,' he

corrected her. 'That's not the same thing.'

Tm a non-person,' Rowena said.

'Bullshit. I won't allow you to give up like this,' he
answered sharply. The resignation in her. tone shocked him.
She sourided as though life itself had ground to a halt.
'We've having dinner at Spago's on Thursday, and if you're
not in town by Wednesday morning I'm flying up to get

yOU. '

For the first time in a week Rowena found she actually
wanted to do something. She wanted to see John.

'OK,' she said.

337


Was that a faint spark of animation? Metcalfwondered.

'Do yourself one other favour,' he cajoled her. 'Sort out

your finances. Make sure you know where you stand.'

'I can't be bothered,' she said.

'You can and you will,' Metcalftold her. 'Do you want all

those guys blanking you right now to watch you just fade to
black? What would yourjerk-offfather say, "I always knew
she wouldn't last the course"? You hold your head up,
Rowena Gordon. Don't you dare let me down.'


'You're telling me I have no money,' Rowena said three

days later.

She sat opposite Peter Weiss, her accountant, in the oak
panelled offices of Weiss, Fletcher and Baum, waring a
short brown suit and pumps. Her hair was neatly brushed

land tied back in a ponytail, and she'd put on a little
foundation. She was perfectly presentable, but that was
about it.

Weiss had never seen Rowena Gordon look so unattractive.
Her slender frame was now gaunt, her normally
healthy skin pallid, and the sparkle in her green eyes had
totally vanished.

'Not exactly,' he replied cautiously.'Under the settlement
with Musica, you lost your pension funds and
received no compensation, as well as having surrendered
the Lotus. The financial plans we made for you' - he cleared
his throat- 'didn't take account of the possibility of, uh,
what happened. Which means we have to rework your
numbers. Now your apartment will have to be sold because

Musica Entertainment part-funded the original deal.'

'They own the apartment?'

'No, you have a share in the freehold,' he replied hastily.

'Part of the proceeds belong to you. You also have fairly
substantial monies that you could realize from selling your
Musica stock.'

She shook her head. 'I want to keep the stock.'

Weiss shuffled his papers nervously. 'Ms Gordon, I
would have to advise you against that course of action,' he


338

said. 'Your actual monetary savings are limited. You, uh,
you've tended to live at the top of your budgeted bracket.'

'If we sold the apartment and my other stocks, and with
what savings there are, how much would I have altogether?'

'I can't be exact,' Weiss replied, 'but I believe that such
a sale would only realize a little over a million dollars.
And with the need to find a new apartment, Ms Gordon,
you couldn't live in the style to which you've become
accustomed. '

'Thank you, Mr Weiss,' Rowena said. 'I'd be obliged if
you could send me your final bill.'

'This firm will be happy to represent you for a reduced
retainer, Ms Gordon,' Weiss said impulsively, moved by
the calm dignity she was showing. 'We are sure you will
make a success of whatever you next decide to pursue.'

She offered him her hand, touched. It was the first sign of
confidence that anyone outside her immediate group of
friends had, shown in her. Record executives and promoters
who had kissed her ass till it turned blue would no longer
even take her calls.

'I must decline, Mr Weiss, but I shan't forget your
kindness,' Rowena said.

'Why, Ms Gordon?' he asked, surprised to find he was
disappointed.

'I'm leaving New York,' she replied. 'There's nothing
here for me now.'

339


Chapter Thirty


It was all she could do to get up in the mornings.

To begin with it was easy by comparison, because at least

she had things to do. The apartment was sold. She found a
relatively cheap house in the Hollywood hills above the
Chateau Marmont; after the earthquakes in '94, prices for
property on the slopes had plunged. Then there was the
liquidation of her stocks and arranging for the packing up
and delivery of her personal effects.

Peter Weiss had been right on the money. The value of

her entire estate, without selling her Musica stock, came to

I, I OO, OOO.

For most people, a fortune. By Rowena's standards,
failure.

Every single person she'd had close dealings with was
worth at least ten times that amount. John, Josh, Barbara,
Michael, the band. She'd been too busy flying first class,
designer shopping and looking after other people's business

to take care of her personal funds.

And now it was too late.

She had plenty of time to look back over things, and she
knew it hid been her own fault.. She'd betrayed someone
who trusted in her, and then refused to admit any guilt.
She'd taunted Topaz again and again because she'd hated her
for being her own victim, and despised her because of her
own success. A flimsy enough success, as she was just
finding out. As if a veil had been lifted, Rowena could
suddenly see what Topaz must have seen: a haughty,
arrogant bitch who cared for nobody but herself.

After Rossi's attempt to screw up the launch of Heat Street

340


failed, Rowena had thought she was invincible. Never mind
that it was Michael Krebs, not her, who'd turned that one
around. And when she'd managed to sign Obsession and
Steamer, she'd thought she was immortal.

Her comments toJake had been just another symptom. It
wasn't what she'd said, it was where she'd said it. At
Elizabeth Martin's party. With practically every important
man and woman in New York in attendance, including at
least fifty of the top investigative reporters in the city.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt

me.

Oh yeah?

She'd been in the record business since she'd started
working. She had no skills for doing anything else, and
there was no way any record company would have her
back.

I'll never work again, she thought blankly. Feelings of
shame and.catastrophe drifted through the house like black
fog.

Rowena had coped with everything. Her father's rejection.
Squalor in London. The struggle to find a job, and the
struggle to keep it. Setting up on her own in a foreign
country. Building a major new company. Deliberately
walking away from the love of her life.

She had coped with everything. Except failure.


It was John Metcalf who saved her from complete collapse.

At the start he stayed away, just calling now and then to
see if she was OK.

'She's hurting now. She needs a mourning period,' his
therapist said.

'But she won't even go out with meany more,' Metcalf
protested.

'You have to respect her space. It's a difficult time for

her. '

Finally, John Metcalf handed his house keys over to a
buddy, packed up a suitcase and simply drove over to her
house.


34

'What the hell are you doing here?' Rowena demanded
when he turned up at her gate. It was a cool winter's
morning, the type Metcalf particularly enjoyed; a mild
breeze, the flowers in Rowena's small garden faintly
scenting the air. She was dressed appropriately: a dark blue
pantsuit in crisp linen by Michael Kors and fawn pumps
from Chanel. In the doorway behind her he could see the
main room of the house, immaculately neat and tidy. Too neat and tidy. The place looked like a museum. And for all
Rowena's careful outfit, she looked-utterly lifeless. She had

on no make-up, nojewellery, not even a watch.

'Can I come in?' he returned.

She unlatched the door and stood aside for him. John
seemed like a refugee from another world. Someone she had
known a million lifetimes ago, when she was working,

, when she was able to use her brain.

'It's a nice place,' Metcalf said. He glanced round at the
modest reception room, the orderly kitchen and the glimpse
of Rowena's bedroom and bathroom to his left. She had set
up a television and stereo and there was everything you
might actually need in a home - a microwave, refrigerator
arid coffee percolator, but that was it. She'd hung none of
her paintings, unpacked none of her bonsai trees, laid out no
ornaments.

'Thanks,' she replied automatically.

Metcalfhefted up his suitcase and carried it through to her
bedroom. Then he picked up the remote and switched off
the TV, flickering brightly in the corner. 'You shouldn't be
watching that at ten in the morning,' he reproved her
gently.

'Why have you brought a case?' she asked, looking at
Metcalf's tanned body and luxuriant hazel hair. Almost
despite herself, she was glad he was there. In fact, she was surprised he was there. Taken aback that someone was still
interested.

'Because I'm staying for a while,' Metcalf answered
impudently.

'I can look after myself.'

342


'I don't think so,' he replied, reaching out and loosening

her ponytail. A blonde shower fell about her shoulders.
'Don't do that!' she snapped.

He grinned at her. 'At least you can still get mad.'

'Go home, John,' Rowena said. 'You can't stay. I need to
be by myself.'

'You've been by yourself for too long.'

'I want to be alone.'

I can't make her accept me, Metcalfrealized.

'OK, I'll go, if that's what you want,' he told her. 'But
first I need your help. I've run into a problem with Picture
This and we have the divisional meeting coming up - it's in
San Antonio and everyone in the company's gonna be there.
Including Nick Large.'

Large was his boss, a redheaded industry veteran who
controlled Cage Entertainment, the company that owned
Metropolis.

'So get Sam Neil to look into it,' Rowena shrugged. Sam
was her successor at Musica North America and the
soundtrack label was his responsibility now.

He shook his head. 'Won't work. If this was easy I'd have
fixed it myself. I need you because you structured the
original deal.' He gestured towards his briefcase. 'I've
brought the papers with me. Please, Rowena, I know you
feel lousy but I'm stuck. We have a picture opening soon
with a dynamite soundtrack - '

"My Heart Belongs to Dallas," Rowena agreed, with just the
faintest glimmer ofinterest

'Right. Anyway, word is that our numbers are gonna be
just OK, but the merchandizing could turn it into a very
profitable picture." The success of" the record is crucial to
that- '

'MTV, radio tie-ins, press,' she cut in.

'Exactly. Now we have a situation where the management
for Black Ice- one of the bands featured- are insisting
that the studio percentages must exclude their cut because of
their original deal with Musica. They're threatening litigation
and that could delay the launch of the record, w.hich

343


probably won't hurt the album too much but its knock-on
effects for our T-shirts and sunglasses and stuff could be
disastrous . . .'

As John explained the problem, Rowena began to turn

the situation over in her mind, taking a pen from the
sideboard and making notes. When he sat down she didn't
stop him, and when he opened up his case and handed her
the thick sheaf of notes Rowena took them eagerly and
paced through them intently.

Half an hour later she looked up, triumphant, her face
flushed with effort.

'I've got it,' she said. 'It's clause 6b. The rolling break
even states that - '

John's face stopped her in mid-sentence. He was leaning
against the kitchen table, smiling gently. She realized with a

, start that he'd been watching her silently for the last twenty

minutes.

'Welcome back,' he said.


He took her to dinner at the Ivy, where they'd first met.

'You can't understand what it's like,' Rowena said.
'When you've fought for a dream all your life, and as soon as
you get it, it's taken from you.'

John kissed her hand. He wanted to let her talk, to help

her admit her feelings to somebody else. He was overjoyed

it was him she was confiding in.

'Everything you hated before becomes precious. Like
phones ringing all the time, like the travel - God, John, I
missed getting woken up at six to go to the airport every

month because Atomic Mass were playing somewhere.'

She gave him a tiny smile.

'You could have done that any time you wanted,' he told

her. 'Atomic Mass are on a stadium tour of Europe. It's a complete sellout.'

'It is? How's the record doing?'

John leant towards her. 'Haven't you even been listening

to the radio? Didn't you put on MTV?'

'My radio's tuned to a classical station,' she replied, the


344

soft candlelight glinting on her gold earrings. 'And I
couldn't bear to look at MTV. I knew I'd see Musica acts- my acts - and it was too painful. Like watching all the other
kids at a party you weren't invited to.'

Metcalf shook his head in wonderment. 'I guess you're
about the only person on the planet who doesn't know,
then. Zenitk is busting sales records across America. Atomic
Mass have turned into U2.'

Rowena digested the news in silence. Then she said,
'Maybe I should tell you the whole story.'

Starting at the beginning, she recounted all of it. Her
parents' coldness and her own independence. Oxford, and
meeting Topaz Rossi. Peter Kennedy and the Union. Soho.
The fruitless hunt for a band. And Topaz in America, from
the launch of Heat Street to Velocity and finally the Westside story that destroyed her career.

'So don't you want to get this Rossi girl back?' he asked
when she'd-finished, looking at the shadows under her
beautiful eyes, the tiny lines that had appeared around her
mouth and forehead for the first time.

Rowena shook her head. 'Absolutely not. In Topaz's
place I'd have done the same thing.' She paused, then added,
'I told myself that one day she'd give up and let it go .....
couldn't resist taunting her. I forgot what she was like.
Topaz was always passionate, always hot-blooded. What
we'd consider a grudge, she'd think of as a score that needed
settling.'

'Why did you make such a friend of her in the first place?'

She thought about it. 'You know what it was? We both
had something to prove.'

'Because your fathers wanted boys?'

She nodded, a lovely, graceful movement. John admired
her dress again, a fitted gown in moss-green velvet that
picked out her eyes.

'Your fathers were morons,' he said.

'Perhaps. I've sometimes longed to b6 a man,' she
answered. 'It would have cut down on some heartache.'

'Do you miss Topaz Rossi?'John asked.

345


'No,' Rowena said slowly. 'Certain things can't be
undone. I miss my job. I miss Barbara and Josh and
Atomic...'

And I miss Michael Krebs, she finished silently.

'So what are you going to do about it?'John asked.

His liquid blue eyes were intent. He was going to get her
back in the game, whatever it took - pleading, bullying,
threats.

He ticked the points off on his fingers. 'You used to run a
record company, and that option's closed to you now.
You've always worked in the record business. It's unlikely
that any big corporation would be in a position to hire you
right now, because you're too high-profile to be hired
quietly. Those are your disadvantages.'

She looked at him as he bent over and refilled her glass
with champagne; a vintage Dom Perignon, one of her
favourites.

'You built up a company from scratch, so you acquired
general business skills. You have intelligence and guts. You
have a million dollars of your own which you could borrow
against. And you will have a lot of key players in your
corner-Joshua Oberman, Michael Krebs, Barbara Lincoln,
Steamer, Roxana, Atomic Mass, and me. Those are your
advantages. Now the question is, what are you going to do
with them?'

She sipped at her drink, considering it. 'What do you
think I should do?'

'I think you should set up in business. Be your own boss,'
he replied. 'But I don't know which business. And it's not
my job to find out.'

'I could, couldn't I?' Rowena asked, and with a rush ofjoy
Metcalfsaw that her eyes were sparkling again.

'Your hero David Geffen walked away from his brilliant
career because they told him he had terminal cancer. A year
later they say it's the wrong diagnosis and he had a load of
money and nothing to do. Did he turn into a zombie? No,
he went and founded Geffen Records.'

She speared a forkful of Caesar salad.


346

'You can do anything you want,' he said. 'Real glory isn't
about a smooth ride to the top. It's about picking yourself
up when you fall and building it all again.'

'John, I could fall in love with you,' Rowena said.
'That's what I'm counting on,' he replied.

347


Chapter Thirty-One


Three weeks later Rowena Gordon was back in business.

It could hardly have been more different to her last office.
No expensive carpets and designer window space. No
Eames chairs. Not even a filter coffee machine.

She set up in a cheap lot on Melrose with two phones, a

fax machine and an eighteen-year-old secretary. Things
, were different when you paid the overheads bills yourself.

John Metcalf offered her anything she wanted - start-up
capital, the use of an office in the Metropolis lot. Rowena
thanked him but refused. 'This is something I have to do
myself,' she said. 'Taking help from anyone just wouldn't
be right.'

, 'At least move in with me. Then you could sell your place
and use the funds from that.'

She kissed him, a soft, wet kiss that stirred his groin. 'I
can't. I nearly gave my independence up before. You helped
me out of that, remember?'

'This isn't just for you,' he admitted, an erection growing
in his pants. She saw it and pressed her hand between his
legs, caressing his hardness through the cloth. He groaned.
'Please. I want you near me.'

'You're near me now,' Rowena said, reaching behind her
and unzipping her slip dress. The silk slid offher like water,
and with a shock of lust he saw she was naked underneath it.
The long slender legs had tanned to the colour of buttermilk,
and her nipples were a beautiful pink against the
golden skin of her small breasts. She leant back, displaying
the blonde triangle between her supple thighs. 'Want to get
closer?'

348


Without a word he unbuttoned his jeans and kicked them
off, taking her in his arms. His cock pressed against the flat

of her stomach, hard and swollen with wanting.

'It's been a long time,' he said.

'Too long,' Rowena answered. She thought of the last
time she'd made love to John, a week after the Martins'
party, and then, unbidden, a vision of the last time she'd
touched Michael like this swam into her mind.

John felt heat flood her belly. He pushed a finger into her,
probing. She was already, instantly wet.

'Do you wanna fool around?' he whispered in her ear. 'Or
do you wanna go right to it?'

For answer she smiled at him and spread her legs, an
insolent, sensual movement.

John felt the urgency in his cock take over and he guided
himself to the quick of her, pushing inside her, inch by inch,
until he was sunk in right up to the hilt. She moved with
him, pressing down, as though she wanted him to thrust
even deeper, to fill her even more.

'You feel so good,' he said. Her eyes were shut tight and
he could see her nipples harden and erect in front of his eyes.
Metcalfbent to suck them, tugging at them lightly with his
lips like a greedy child. Pleasure stabbed through her, and
she felt herself getting hotter, needing a man's touch, loving
the strong grip of his arms and the muscled torso, which she
could feel through the thin cotton T-shirt he hadn't
bothered to take off.

Eagerly he started to thrust, finding his rhythm, maddened
by the feel of her tight, slippery clinch around his
cock. As he got faster and faster her own body responded,
until she blocked out everything except the sweet ripples
spreading through her and his driving, rlentless cock, and
white-hot release came in a violent spasm which physically
shook her.

John erupted inside her, held her for a second, and then
pulled out of her sweating, trembling body. He put up his
hands and tilted her face towards him. 'Like I told you,' he
said, 'there's no going back.'


349

She took his right hand and pressed her lips to it, kissing
him gently, gratefully. 'Only forward,' she replied. 'Which
is why I can't move in.'

Nothing he could do or say would move her. She was
with him almost every night, but she refused to sell her
house. She was going to do all this by herself, and be
beholden to nobody.


The choice of business was difficult.

She could work for a production company, or manage a
band- not Michael or Atomic Mass, but others. However,
that would mean working for somebody else and it would
also mean she was on a percentage.

No. I never want to be in a position where I could be fired. And I
want to own stock, not take a salary.

She could start a record company of her own. But any act
she signed as a tiny independent would leave her for a major
at the first taste of success. That was always the way.
Recording costs had soared since David Geffen had founded
his labels, and while it could still be done, it was much more
difficult...

But that's not the real reason, isit? she asked herself. The
fact is that Atomic Mass and Josh and Barbara and all the rest
of it .meant everything to me. When it was taken away I was
devastated. Music is my life. Music is too much to risk.

No emotional capital. She would start again as a businesswoman,
and keep her passions separate.

She would be in control.


Rowena settled on the best compromise she could come up
with. It had to involve music, because that was her area of
expertise, but it also had to be as dry as dust. Something that
would let her work to live, not live to work.

She got a piece of paper and listed her main talents. I. A&R. Well, that one was pretty useless now. 2. Promotion.

Rowena scored a line under this and sat staring into space. Promotion... now there was an idea. Hadn't she pulled off


350

the marketing rescue of the century when Atomic Mass
booked the Coliseum too early in the US tour for Heat
Street? And that was one thing Krebs hadn't done for her.

All my own work, she thought with a smile. Damn, that
had felt so good.

But unforeseen disasters didn't happen every day, and the
major companies had in-house marketing experts, as did the

big promoters and agents.

So who needed help?

Wasn't it obvious? Everybody who couldn't afford to
hire marketing specialists. Indie labels. College promoters.
Small clubs around the country.

Couldn't afford them, though, that was the point. How
could one of them afford her?

The answer came back instantly: one of them couldn't. But a
lot of them could.


That evening, Rowena drove up to John's weekend beach
house in Malibu tO tell him her plans. After she'd taken a
long, refreshing shower, washed her hair and pulled on one
of his huge paisley Turnbull & Asser bathrobes, he joined
her on the terrace, carrying two frosted glasses and a pitcher
ofmargaritas.

'Do you still have that conference in San Antonio coming
up?'

He nodded, a shadow crossing his face. 'Yeah. And I still
have problems with the record. The plan you dreamt up
stopped the lawsuit, but now the act is refusing to help
promote it. And "Face Up" is the first single.'

Rowena sipped her drink. Black Ice were one of the
toughest groups to deal with, she knew that. They hated big
companies on principle and nothing wa good enough for
them: not enough posters in the stores, not enough radio
play, not enough MTV. They raised objections at every
stage from artwork to distribution. She remembered them
and their stubborn manager, All Kahed, only too well.

Black Ice also sold a lot of records. They'd been the first
big act on Musica North America that she hadn't signed

herself, and they made the reputation of Steve Goldman, the
young scout who'd risen to become her head of A&R. Their
last album had debuted at number four in the Billboard charts.

Properly handled, 'Face Up' could sell a lot of records for
Picture This, and a lot of T-shirts for My Heart Belongs to
Dallas.

'I can tell you what to do,' she said.

'Really? Jesus, I hope so,' Metcalf said, pushing a hand
through his hair. 'Because this is a total fucking mess. The
new Musica guys are terrified of Kahed and they won't lift a
finger to help out.'

Rowena lifted her glass to him. 'Congratulations,' she
said. 'You've just become my first client.'


When Metropolis biked round the contract the next day,

,
	Rowena signed on the dotted line in front of Joanne; her
secretary, and the guy who sold leather boots in the store
opposite.

'They've left a space for us to include the company name,'
saidJoanne.

Rowena shrugged. 'Any ideas?'

'Call it Cowhide,' suggested the bootseller, 'can't have
rock 'n' roll without leather,' and the Cowhide Consultancy
was born.

For the first two hours Joannejust sat at her desk reading Impact. Her boss worked in silence, spreading large sheets of
paper over her desk and writing down names, phone
numbers and lists of stores, radio stations and music
magazines with large coloured pens, occasionally doodling
lines from one to another. Eventually she came out, her
hands covered with bright inkstains, and handed Joanne a

small list with seventy names and numbers on it.

Joanne raised an eyebrow.

'Oh, that's just the first batch,' Rowena told her. 'Think
you're ready for this?'

Tm ready if you are,: Joanne said, smiling.

Maybe this job wouldn't be such a dead loss after all.

Once Rowena got started there was no stopping her.
Carefully she'd picked out her target audience: maverick
programmers, store managers who owed her favours, and
writers and TV execs who'd been closely involved with her
work on Atomic Mass.

'Christ, Rowena! How are you? Where the fuck have you
been?' asked Jack Fleming at Roiling Stone.

'Black Ice? Yeah, they'll play,' said Joe Moretti at
KXDA. 'They're on. My pleasure. When are you coming
by?'

'I'll do what I can,' Pete Meyer at MTV promised. 'It's
good to have you back.'

At lunchJoanne ordered them a pizza and a couple of Diet
Cokes, and Rowena called John and listed all the stations
and papers she'd delivered so far.

'I don't believe it. How the hell did you pull that off?.' he
asked, amazed.

'Oh, I'm,not through,' she replied. 'That was the warm
up. Now, how much money would you be willing to give
me for an advertising budget?'

'Advertising? Isn't that Musica'sjob?°

'Depends what you want. If you want to sell a few
albums, we already have. If you want to help your film
merchandizing . . .'

'How much do you need?' John asked, struck by the
briskness of her tone. She was using his private line, but she
was all business.

Jesus, we were making love.on the beach this morning.

She named a figure.

'OK,' he said. 'My Heart Belongs to Dallas is opening two
weeks after this single is commercially released. Do you
think you can get publicity for the movie'out of this as well?'

That's the idea,' Rowena said. 'I have something in
mind, but I need an ad budget to do it.'

'All right, Rowena,'John said. 'You got it. Surprise me.'
'I will,' she said.

That afternoon Rowena gaveJoanne the second list. This
contained the names of programme directors and editors in

353


the key markets whom she couldn't count on personally;
men that were still friendly to her, though. The trick was to
spend a little money where it would buy the most exposure;
she knew better than to simply go for the magazines and
stations with the biggest readership or catchment areas.
Influence meant everything. That was what working with
Michael Krebs had taught her.

She knew all about My Heart Belongs to Dallas. It was a
bittersweet modern romance, the story of a woman torn
between a Texan lawyer, the love of her life, and a doctor
who'd fathered her child and would make the better parent
for him. She chooses the doctor for her boy's sake, and then
to her surprise finds herself falling in love with him after all.

Rowena didn't think it was a bad film, it just wasn't what
Metropolis had expected. They'd wanted a very dramatic,
highly charged Oscar winner. They'd got a wry, sexy
comedy with a few tear-jerking scenes.

Personally, she thought that everyone who loved When
Harry Met Sally would love this one too, but the Metropolis
marketing guys felt differently. They'd pitched it as a classy
weepy, Kramer vs. Kramer or Terms of Endearment. Rowena
guessed that the reason the numbers were so low was that
the Kramer vs. Kramer types at the previews were disappointed.

She hadn't said a word. Films were John's business, not

hers. If John had offered her advice on Atomic Mass
when she was at Musica, she'd have yelled at him to butt out.

But the 'Face Up' single gave her an idea.

A wcck before the record went to radio, huge billboards
appeared in New York, LA, and Dallas, plain black
backgrounds with foot-high white lettering: FACE UP
TO YOUR CHOICES.

Two days later, full-page ads ran in the New York Times,

the LA Times and other big papers, all with the same plain
message. There was no mention of the movie, album or
single.

The campaign was an instant hit. People started ringing

354

radio talk shows to ask what the ads meant. At one
intersection in Manhattan there was a logjam as drivers
craned their necks up to look.

Then 'Face Up' was released.

The original work with her extensive network kicked in,
and astonished Musica promo men found their brand-new
single had already been plastered across the airwaves in key
cities - by, get this, Rowena Gordon.

Then the competitions Rowena had set up started running
on the other stations and in the magazines.

'What's the hardest choice you ever faced up to?'

'What would you do for love?'

It was pop psychology at the simplest level. Everyone's
given something up, Rowena figured, everyone's been in
love, and she was proved right as switchboards jammed
coast-to-coast.

Finally there was the video. Black Ice had refused point
blank to shgot one, and the guys at Metropolis wanted to
string old footage together and use that, but Rowena had a
better idea. 'We won't show the act at all. We'll show the
movie,' she suggested, and the result was a terrific promo,
the best moments from Dallas segued together and laid over

the funky, aggressive pop of the song.

MTV loved it.

The last calls Rowena made were to old friends of hers
who worked in the industry tipsheets, both film and music- Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, HITS magazine and the
like, and every one of them ran an article along the lines of
'Just when you thought it was safe...'


'Face Up' hit num'ber one in the blot oo the week it was
released, and a fortnight later My Heart Belongs to Dallas opened to packed theatres.

All Kahed, astonished to find his act had the biggest hit of
their career, called Sam Neil and told him that they might
consider doing a little soundtrack promotion.

Nick Large called John Metcalf and dryly congratulated
him.

355


And late one evening Rowena's phone rang in her
bedroom.

'Hello?' she asked, surprised. The number was unlisted,
John was on a plane to San Antonio, and the only other
person she'd given it to wasJoanne.

'Hello, kid,' said Josh Oberman. 'What the hell took you
so long?'

356


Chapter Thirty-Two


Peter Weiss stared at the young woman sitting opposite him
with something approaching astonishment.

She no longer looked emaciated, listless and pale. On the
contrary, she was a tanned, slender thirty-year-old woman
in an elegant pink Chanel suit that fitted her to perfection.
Her right wrist sported a platinum Rolex, and a sapphire
engagement ring glinted on her left hand. Her blonde hair
had been feather-cut to add body and movement. Her long
legs were cvered by the sheerest nylon stockings, and her
shoes were stack heels by Azzedine Alaa. She was lightly
made-up, just enough to perfect the delicate beauty of her
skin, and she wore a delightful scent- which one, Weiss had
no idea, but it smelt vaguely of sandalwood. And jasmine.

It had been barely a few months since he'd seen her last,
but Rowena Gordon looked like a different person.

That was partly to be expected, of course. After theJake
Williams scandal and her summary expulsion from Musica
North America, Rowena had come to his offices with the
weight of public humiliation and the loss of her livelihood
on her young shoulders.

He recalled their meeting clearly. As the first woman to
be president of a major US record label, Ms Gordon had
been one of their most high-profile clients, and his partners
had been insistent that, after laying out for her the sorry
state of her financial affairs - relatively speaking - he let her
know that Weiss, Fletcher & Baum would no longer
represent her. Instead, he'd been so shbcked by her
emaciated body and so impressed by the quiet dignity with
which she bore herself that he'd wound up offering to

357


reduce the fee so she could keep her accountants.

It had been an impulsive offer. Completely out of
character.

But now Rowena Gordon was back in his office. And this
time she wasn't a private client in severe trouble, she was the
chairman of her own company. Cowhide, Inc had
customers all over the entertainment business - film
studios, TV stations, rock bands, sports teams. They
picked their events and records and shows very selectively,
choosing only assignments that-were both difficult and
high-profile. That way, with every successive coup,
Rowena's company got more famous - and more pricey.

Weiss knew that the pressure on Cowhide to expand was
immense. Rowena employed sixteen people, when she
could have had sixty. She took on three projects a monthr
when thirty more were desperately trying to secure her
services.

Cowhide Goes Hell for Leather, screamed Variety.

Rowena rulest. proclaimed HITS.

Bullish Cowhide Wins Raiders Contract, announced Billboard.

They'd had offers from every conceivable source, wantng
to buy them out- CAA, William Morris, ICM, Turner
Entertainment, you name it. Rowena had turned them all
down, as far as he knew. Certainly, she looked like a young
woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

And yet he could scarcely believe what he was hearing.
'Are you sure about this, Ms Gordon?'

Tm quite sure, Mr Weiss, I want your firm to represent
Cowhide, both in general terms, for a retainer, and
specifically, for- for any financial work that may arise,' she
finished vaguely.

'But we handle private individuals, Ms Gordon. We're
just a small firm. For a company like Cowhide, you'd be
better off with a big name - Coopers andLybrand or the
like.' Weiss coughed, embarrassed. 'I would be derelict in
my duty not to advise you of it.'

She smiled, a serious, courteous smile. 'And you have


358

advised me of it, Mr Weiss. Nonetheless, Weiss, Fletcher
and Baum is the firm I want. If you think you need more
associates to handle our business, by all means hire them.'

She fished about in her purse and drew out a neat folded
piece of paper. 'I hope you'll forgive the liberty,' she said
charmingly, 'but I have brought a certified cheque with me
for a year's retainer in advance. Assuming your partners
will be willing to take on our account.'

Mesmerized, Peter Weiss unfolded the cheque. It was
made out to his firm in the amount of one million dollars.

'You told me a few months ago that you had confidence
in me, Mr Weiss, when circumstances were rather different,'
Rowena continued, seeing he was too stunned to
reply. 'Cowhide returns the compliment.'

He Couldn't believe it. Jack Fletcher was going to have a
heart attack.

Rowena stood up and shook his hand in a firm, dry grip.
'Nice doing business with you, Mr Weiss,' she said, and
walked out of his office, leaving the old man staring after her.


In the taxi on the way to the Regent, Rowena permitted
herself a small smile. The meeting at Weiss, Fletcher &
Baum had been something she'd been looking forward to; it
was one of the pleasures of a second wind of success to
reward your friends and snub your enemies.

Well, maybe enemies was too strong a word. They
existed in everybusiness; as .a new Angeleno she should be
aware of that. Cowardly, greedy little types that kicked you
when you were down and kissed your ass like mad if you
happened to get up again. The record company execs who'd
blanked her when she got fired by Musica. The promoters
and agents who'd refused to take her calls. Recently, every
single one of them had called up, or sent flowers, watches,
other such peacemaking tokens. She had taken great delight
in telling Joanne how to answer the phone to those jackals:
'Ms Gordon is not available to you, Mr X, now or at any
time up to and including the Day of Judgment.'

359


She stirred in her seat, looking forward to her lunch
meeting. First of all, it would be great to see Oberman
again. For all the talking they'd done, she hadn't actually
laid eyes on the old buzzard since she'd got canned. And
second, meeting the chairman of Musica Entertainment at
such a powerbroker venue was the best way to announce
that the exile was over.

Rowena Gordon was well and truly back.


As night was deepening, the electric floodlights grew more
brilliant by the minute. Barbara could smell the acrid smoke
from the dry ice drifting out from the venue; the sound of
the people inside was a low rumbling noise, punctuated by
sharp football whistles and interwoven with the pumping
blast of the sound system.

On her way out of the arena, Atomic Mass's manager
sighed with satisfaction. Another sell-out, and here in
Barcelona the T-shirt stall was doing even brisker business
than when they'd played Florence the previous night. Jim
Xanthos, the new guitarist, was settling in great- there was
no more sniping and secrecy among the boys, and Jim fitted
in like he'd been there for ever. A happier band paid offboth
in better shows and more creativity; Michael Krebs had
loved the demos they'd written on the road.

Jesus, that's a good sign, Barbara thought, as the limo
spun out on to the main city road. Two hit albums is good,
but three is better.., we could still gain a little ground in
Australasia.

She smiled faintly, catching herself plotting. God, how
she'd changed in the past few years; from a cool, impersonal
lawyer to a kick-ass manager with the best of them. And if you'd told her when she first saw this act that they
represented the rest of her life, she'd have laughed in your
face. Even when she started out with Atomic Mass, she
couldn't tell Van Halen from Van Morrison.

The quiet streets slipped past her, a huge medieval
cathedral at the city's centre, not much traffic in the early
evening. She had time for a good two hours with Michael


36o

before they went back to watch the boys.

Imagine me wanting to see a hard rock show! Oberman never
lets up about it... I wonder what Rowena will say when we get
her back out on the road.

Rowena. Her most constant friend; they'd been as close as
two of the busiest women in music could be, and Barbara
had been appalled by what had happened to her. For the
sake of that useless junkie Jake Williams, too. She hated it
when Rowena went into hiding and didn't give a soul her
LA number, but she understood. If somebody took this
life away from her now - if Atomic Mass split up
tomorrow...

Barbara shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about.

She knew what it was like, when you were a woman in
business. You made sacrifices. If you were lucky, you had
some joy out of your work. For both herself and Rowena,
work and life had become inseparable.

Rowena a/ways loved the record business, and I came to
love it, Barbara thought, pulling up in the hotel forecourt.
But at least I had a lover, too.

She'd met Jake Barber a week before the Zenith release. It
was love, if not at first, then certainly at third sight. Jake
worked at a cool independent record label, and they were
married after five weeks at Chelsea registry office in
London, with all their friends warning that it would never

last. It was their eighteen-month anniversary next week. Rowena, on the other hand...

Barbara got out of the car,-her light Armani dress rippling
in the warm breeze, and stepped into the hotel. The
receptionist nodded at her and told her Mr Krebs was
waiting.

On the surface it all looked wonderful? The wild success of My Heart Belongs to Dallas followed by the world beating
a path to Rowena's door. She was her own boss now, and
any corporate misgivings about ill-advised remarks had
been drowned in the heavenly sound of cash tills chiming.
Even Vanity Fair had done a profile on her - 'The Rise, Fall
and Rise of the Hit Woman'. And then, on her thirtieth

36


birthday, her engagement to John Peter Metcalf III, the
brilliant young president of Metropolis Studios, had been
announced. The happy couple were photographed together
at the wrap party for Steven, the big Metropolis weepie for
autumn, looking impossibly rich, powerful and glamorous.

Truly two of the 'beautiful people'.

And yet, and yet.

She knocked loudly on the door of Krebs's suite and
walked in.

'Barbara, you look great,' Michael said, greeting her
warmly.

'So do you,' his friend replied. Krebs was wearing his
usual T-shirt and jeans and still managed to look gorgeous
the muscled toso rippling under the thin cotton, the
stomach trim and lean, the wiry hair at the side of his head
giving him an unmistakable aura of intelligence and power. He's not my type, but I understand what she saw in him. 'Yeah, but I have to work at it. How'sJake?'
'Wonderful. How are Debbie and the boys?'
'They're great,' Michael said.

There was always just a slight edge to this ritual exchange
.between the two of them. Krebs didn't know whether
Rowena had ever told Barbara about their affair, and the
doubt hung in the air whenever they spoke.

Since Rowena fled New York for LA, that edge had got
keener. It was an unspoken bargain between the manager
and the producer that her name be mentioned as little as
possible, and only ever in a business sense. For after
Cowhide had catapulted her back into the industry
spotlight, Rowena had recontacted Barbara, the band and
all her old friends - except Michael.

In interviews and on television she'd repeatedly called
him a genius, her mentor, the sixth member of Atomic
Mass. Rowena made it perfectly clear that she was a big fan

of Michael Krebs, both as a producer and a human being.
But she didn't call.

Well, Barbara reflected, if I'm right, that's all about to
change.

'Michael, when did you last speak to Joshua Oberman?'

she asked him, sitting down and lighting up a St Moritz.
'About a month ago. Why?'

'Did he mention Rowena Gordon to you?'

Krebs stiffened imperceptibly. 'No, I don't think so.'

'OK,' Barbara said, taking a long, satisfying drag. 'I'm
gonna tell you something, but it's totally confidential.'

'Shoot,' he said, watching her through narrowed eyes.
'Josh rang me in Florence last night. He asked Rowena to
meet him for lunch at the Regent Hotel in New York this
afternoon, and he's going to offer her a newly created post at
Musica. They've changed the make-up of the board again,
and Oberman has an absolute majority now.'

Michael leant back in his armchair. 'What new post,
exactly?'

'President of the worldwide company. She'd report
directly to him, but Josh is basically retiring from active
involvemeat.'

'Holy shit,' Krebs said softly.

'We don't know if she'll take it. It would mean giving up
Cowhide, and that's something of her own.'

He shook his head. 'She'll take it,' he said, and there was
an expression glittering in his dark eyes that Barbara
couldn't decipher.

'Maybe. Anyway, that's not all, which is why I thought
we should talk,' she said. 'Oberman told me something
else. One of the reasons he wants to hand over to Rowena
Gordon now is that he doesn't think he'll have the

opportunity in a year's time.'

'Why not?' Michael asked.

'Because he thinks Musica Entertainment is the target of a
hostile takeover bid.'

'Who from?' Krebs demanded. 'Musica is a major record
company. They've got the clout to hire the best investment
banking in the world. Who the hell would try to swallow
them?'

'Try Mansion Industries,' Barbara replied.

363


Rowena leant forward, trying to take in what she'd just
heard. She was careful not to let her surprise show.
Oberman had taken a centre table, right in the middle of the
dining room, the most blatant position of all. The two of
them - old corporate warrior and his young entrepreneur
protegee- were on display to the business elite of Manhattan,
and she knew they were being watched.

'Let me tick these points off,' she said. 'Number one,
despite the fact that the company had me fired in the most
ostentatious way, you now want to-make me president.'

'Spoken to my lawyers,' said Oberman testily, 'and you
haven't been convicted of any wrongdoing. Even if Westside kept the tape, it doesn't prove you did what you said you
did. You might have been trying to talkJake out of it. And if
the industry thinks it's weird, so what? Everyone's read Hit
, Men. We are weird. I don't explain myself to them.'

'Number two, you expect me to give up Cowhide.
Which is totally successful, Josh, and which I own
privately.'

'So sell it. You'll be rich. And you'll be the first woman
ever to make president of a major and that's your goddamn
lie's ambition, Gordon, so don't try and snow me.'

'Number three, according to you I'll only have this job
for a matter of months, because Mansion Industries are
going to take us over and ruin our artists' careers.'

Joshua Oberman fixed her with a watery eye. 'Listen up,
princess,' he said. Tve been working at Musica since your
morn was a teenager. After my wife died, records were my
whole life. I was there for the Rolling Stones and I was there
for Led Zeppelin and I was there for Metallica and I was
there for Atomic Mass. Now in nineteen seventy-one
management, including me, took the company public, and
as you may be realizing with Cowhide, that means a lot more money but the loss of your control.'

He paused, shaking his head. 'Finally, I made chairman.
I'm running the whole show now. Took me long enough.
Even a year ago, I couldn't stop you getting fired. But right
now I have control of Musica as it stands and I'm not

364


prepared to give it up without a fight.'

Oberman grabbed his napkin and coughed into it. 'I'm
not a fool, Gordon. I know perfectly well that we may not
be able to withstand Mansion Industries. But I also know
that you've got the best chance of anybody around. Which
is why you have to accept this job.'

'Are you asking me or telling me?'

'I'm telling you,' he said.

She nodded, blonde hair lustrous in the morning light.
'All right, Josh. I can't promise anything, though.'

The old guy smiled slightly. 'Admit it, Rowena. You
missed it like hell. You want to get back to Zenith and all the
rest of it. You want to be dealing with Barbara and the boys
again and,' he added slyly, 'Michael Krebs.'

'How is Michael?' Rowena asked casually.

'Still married,' Oberman said mischievously.

'Josh' she protested. 'It wasn't like that. There was
nothing going on. Anyway, I'm engaged to John Metcalf.
See?' She held up her left hand, letting her new sapphire
sparkle in the sun.

The old man speared a forkful of omelette and winked at
her infuriatingly.

'Sure, kid,' he said.


Knowing that word would be leaking out around the record
business, Rowena got in a cab to JFK the moment she left
the Regent. She called John from the first-class cabin and
asked him to meet her at the house at six.

This was going to be difficult. How could she tell him
that she wasgoing back to Musica Records? It would mean
giving up Cowhide, which John.had helped her to build.
And it would also mean moving back to New York. John
ran Metropolis, he could hardly come with her. Maybe one
day she'd be able to engineer a transfer of the company
down to LA, or set up another branch there, but at the
moment taking this job involved a return to their weekend
relationship.

Lots of couples live like that, Rowena reasoned. Plus,.


365

how many couples both run big companies? It'll mean that
we can get on with our work in the week and enjoy each
other on Saturday and Sunday . . .

'Champagne, ma'am?' the steward asked, filling her glass
to the brim.

She sipped thoughtfully. But will John see it like that? After
all, we're engaged.

And yet Oberman had been right. Amazing how well the
old guy knew her. As soon as he'd offered her the job she'd
known she would accept, for all her pretended outrage. She
shifted a little in her roomy seat, feeling pure adrenalin
pump through her veins. First woman in history to run a
major record label! It was her dream come true. She couldn't
deny it. And however mad her boyfriend got, there was no

, way she was walking away from it.

John was waiting for her in the garden when she got home,
standing under the orange tree, a glass of iced mineral water
in his hand.

Rowena fixed herselfa grapefruit juice and walked out to

join him. After the dirt and cold of Manhattan, the warm
fragrant air of the Hollywood hills seemed especially
welcoming.

I'm gonna miss this, she decided with a pang of regret.

'I had lunch with Josh Oberman today. He offered me the
presidency of Musica Worldwide, with complete power to
run the company. He reckons Mansion Industries is going
to try a hostile takeover.'

Metcalf stared at her and Rowena felt her heart sink. His

handsome face had gone tight with anger.

'Don't tell me. You accepted.'

'Yes, I did,' she replied, trying to sound confident. 'It's
everything I ever wanted, John. I can't pass it up.'

'Why?' he demanded. 'So you can be the CEO who

hands it over to Mansion? Don't you read the Wall Street
Journal or Economic Monthly, for Christ's sake? Conrad
Miles can't be stopped. If he wants Musica, he can buy Musica twenty times over. Meanwhile, you're prepared to


366

sacrifice our relationship for the sake of an empty title and a
corporation that threw you out on your ass.'

'It wouldn't be sacrificing our relationship, darling,' she
pleaded, walking over to him and putting a hand gently on
his arm. 'It'll just be for a few months until I can open a Los
Angeles office... I could fly down here at weekends.'

'Weekends! Jesus!' John exclaimed, pushing her away.
His blue eyes were icy with fury. Tm not some puppy you

can treat however you want."

'That's not fair.'

'Isn't it? After the way you were when they sacked you? Is
your memory so short?' he demanded, cupping her chin in
his hand and tilting her face up to his. 'Rowena, you were
a recluse. I had to personally go over to your house and
kick your butt. And I took risks for you then. I was the president
of Metropolis and you were in the middle of a drugs
scandal '

' - and d'm grateful,' she interrupted. 'But that can't
change this! Please try to understand.'

'Oh, I understand,' he said savagely. 'Just like I understood
when you were working day and night at Cowhide.
When you couldn't make time for me then, either. Christ,
I'm such an idiot. I thought that when you agreed to marry
me things might be different.'

He stroked her cheek, but it was a rough, almost
desperate caress. 'Your heart's a fucking fortress, Rowena,
you know that?' he demanded. 'I love you. What the hell is
it going to take?'

'I love you too,' she said, grabbing his hand and pressing
it to her skin. 'That's why I agreed to marry you.'

'Is it?' he asked. 'Or is it just part of the masterplan?'
'John!'

'Do what you have to do,' he snarled. 'Try and remember
to book some space in your fucking diary for our wedding,'
and he stormed off into the house.

For a second she stared after him, and then she put down
her juice and ran inside.

'Hey, hey,' she murmured, putting her arms around him.


367

'John. Sweetheart. Please, I'm sorry... I should have
asked you first. I swear it'll only be for a few months. We'll
open an office in LA.'

Metcalf tried to brush her away, but there was just
something about the insistent press of her body, the catch in
her tone, the scent of her hair. Despite himself, he
weakened.

'It's OK,' he said, 'it's OK, baby,' and he scooped her up
in his arms, as lightly as if she were a doll, and carried her
through to their bedroom, letting her cover his chest with
little breathless kisses, tiny butterfly caresses, that drove out
his anger and sparked his desire.

He laid her down on the Pratesi sheets, slipping off her
jacket, unbuttoning her silk chemise, his thumbs clumsy
with excitement as he unhooked the lacy La Perla bra and

, felt his breath catch in this throat at the sight of her pink
nipples, half stiffened in anticipation. His left hand slipped
up her smooth thigh, a new rush of passion surging through
him as it met the delicate wisp of her panties.

'I can't do without you for long,' he murmured, but then
her arm snaked round his neck and her hand reached down
tcxunzip his pants, and all protest was silenced in another hot
kiss, a tangle of clothes, a liquid melting of flesh.


'Oberman? it's Rowena,' she said.

Thank Christ we bought a pied--terre in Manhattan, she
thought, as she looked round the smart apartment John and
she had picked out together last Christmas. It was a light,
roomy place on Mercer Street in SoHo, with a huge
window Rowena had fallen in love with and a polished
wood floor. Neither John nor she had had much time to use
it up until now, so her cases sat in an almost empty
bedroom, with just one change of clothes for each of them
hanging in the closet. A few of her files relating to the
various offers she'd had for Cowhide, and her lawyers'
cast-iron employment contract with Musica were strewn
over the bed.

'Good, I'm glad I caught you.' Oberman's crabby voice


368

crackled down the lines. 'I've just spoken to Barbara
Lincoln and she has some ideas about the Atomic Mass
contract. Like a keyman clause relating to you. Know what
that means?'

'Nice to speak to you too,' she replied, laughing. 'And of
course I know what it means. iF i leave the company for any
reason, their contract would be null and void - they could
walk out of Musica and sign to PolyGram. Clive David and
Whitney Houston have the same '

'Exactly. It would be a first step in persuading Mansion
not to bother,' the chairman cut in. 'So be a good girl and
hop out to Spain. They're playing Barcelona.'

'But I've just got into New York this morning.'

'So take a shower,' Oberman snapped. 'You can play
with your new office tomorrow.'

'Well, yes, sir,' Rowena said, smiling, and put down the
phone. Plus ¢a change . . .

She opened the wardrobe. Thank God for one sensible habit
I've got into.

She kept a small case of essentials packed and ready to go
jeans, white shirt, Nikes, two pairs of panties and bras and a
nightgown, along with toiletries and her passport. Next to
this case were two smaller ones with extras according to the
climate: sweaters for Moscow, sunblock for the Caribbean.
She picked the 'hot' case and got on the phone to Continental
airlines, then booked herself in at the Meridian.
Atomic Mass would be playing the Olympic Stadium
tomorrow, two nights there and then up to Paris.

At least she'd get to see the lads play Europe. The last time
she'd been able to get away to go to one of their concerts had
been the night they stormed the Madowlands, New Jersey,
at the start of the US leg of the Questionstour. And that was
so long ago she didn't want to think about it.

Rowena faxedJohn a short note, telling him she'd be back
in a couple of days, and started to get undressed, deciding on
a comfortable Perry Ellis suit for the flight. It Was navy blue,
a simple cut that flattered her figure and let her move about
easily - perfect airport gear. She kicked off her beautiful,


369

impractical Italian high heels and went for a smart pair of
navy flats, taking nojewellery and snatching her purse from
the dresser. She could make up on the way to the plane.


Continental Airlines flight I8635 for Spain swung slowly
round on its heavy axis and prepared to head down the
runway for takeoff.

Rowena Gordon, seated comfortably in first class with a
blanket draped across her knees for the long night flight,
was deep in thought.

Well, she told herself, you're the Chief Executive Officer

of Musica Entertainment. The first woman to run a major:
label. Congratulations. Not quite what you expected, is it?
How long do you think you'll last?


'
	Barcelona slipped by her, neon and beautiful in the darkness.
She hadn't been here for years, she'd forgotten how
openly the city was laid out towards the edges, all wide
roads and tree-lined spaces Her cab driver, mercifully, did
not speak English so she was able to appreciate the winding streets as they tore into the centre of town, hundreds of fly
posters lit up by their headlights. She found she was
twisting and turning, looking for Atomic Mass spots.
There were plenty of them, luckily for Musica Spain. The
gig had sold out within hours of being announced five
months ago, but that was no excuse not to promote it. If
most people in Barcelona that bought records already had a
copy of Zenith, they could get Heat Street too. And besides,
the Knuckleheads, on as support, needed the exposure.

The Olympic Stadium was an impressive sight, floodlit
towers jabbing into the sky. As Rowena stepped out of her
limo, the sound of a roaring crowd drifted towards her. She
felt a quick, adolescent thrill of excitement. Christ, it had
been a long time since she'd seen a band.

She walked up to a security guard, flashed her laminate
and was immediately ushered inside the barriers. One of the
crew took her up to the production office.

Will Macleod was sitting perched on a table, yelling into a


370
phone. When he caught sight of Rowena, he shouted, I'll
fookin' deal with it later,' and slammed down the receiver.

'Who the hell are you?' he barked, obviously unimpressed
with the all-access laminate swinging ostentatiously on
her T-shirt.

'I'm Rowena Gordon, president of Musica Records,' she
said hastily. Being mistaken for a groupie or a gatecrasher
by this guy looked as though it could cause problems. 'To
see Barbara Lincoln?' she finished, wondering why it came
out as a nervous request.

'Aye. Well, you've missed her,' growled Macleod. 'She
went back to the hotel. I'm sorry I cannae help, but the boys
are onstage - in five minutes,' he added menacingly.

As if to confirm his words, the sound of SteppenwoWs
'Born to Be Wild,' their intro tape, flooded the air at
maximum volume. A huge howl of approval tore from the
crowd.

Rowena involuntarily turned towards the stage. Exhilaration
ripped through her.

Jesus! she thought. I really want to see this! And why
shouldn't I? Barbara won't mind, we could talk tomorrow
. . . I never did get to see the Zenith set...

'Would you take me up onstage, Will?' she asked.
He looked at her for a second, then nodded briskly.
Rowena followed the tour manager through the laby
rinthian corridor out to the back of the stage. The ramp
leading up through the scaffolding to the onstage viewing
area beside the wings was directly ahead of them. The sound
of Atomic's bass-driven raw harmonies was bleeding into
the warm night sky, mixing with the violently loud roar of
the crowd. It was deafening. She loved it.

'Sixty thousand capacity here,' Macled yelled in her ear.
'Sold out.'

The sky was misting with smoke from the stage, pierced
by their trademark green lasers, caging the amphitheatre in
bars of light, panning out in front of her as she followed Will
up the ramp. Now she could see glimpses of the crowd, a
few sweating, crushed faces in the front row picked out by

371


the red, blue and golden spotlights that circled the packed
audience as well as catching each member of the band. Giant
video screens, the standard accessory for arena and stadium
shows these days, were mounted at the sides of the stage so
that the crowd could see the expressions on their heroes'
faces, blown up to thousands of times lifesize. The fans were
roaring as though Spain had just scored in a World Cup
final.

She felt her exhausted body spring back into life.

'We've got a box at the side of the stage where we sit
VIPs,' Will yelled. 'You can watch from there wi' the other
guest.'

'Who do you have visiting tonight, then?' Rowena asked.

Will guided her along the back of the stage towards the box.

'Their producer,' he said. 'Michael Krebs.'

He pushed the little door open.


From the second she laid eyes on him, Rowena knew she

was lost.

She was weakened, physically drained from the flight.
/nd the instant she let go of all her stress, just gave up and
allowed the music and the passion of the crowd to sweep
into her bloodstream, she'd been shut alone in a box,
onstage, in the dark, thousands of miles away from anyone
either of them knew, with the man she most desired in the
world.

'What are you doing here?' she said.

'I came to talk to Barbara in Modena last night,' he said,
staring at her. 'Thought I'd stay for Barcelona and check out

the show. It's not a crime, is it?'
She shook her head, mutely.
'What about you?'

Rowena shrugged, and gave him a simplified version.
That provided a little breathing space; they talked about
Josh for a few minutes.

The slow, sensual intro to 'Karla' spilled through the
amps around them.


372

'Why didn't you tell me?' Michael said.

'Tell you what?' asked Rowena, trying not to look at
him.

He grabbed her shoulders angrily and spun her round to
face him.

'Don't play games with me,' he said, lifting her left hand
to expose the engagement ring. 'You never told me. You
never called me at all.'

'I didn't know how to,' Rowena said.

'You hurt me,' Krebs said furiously. 'I had to find out
from Barbara Lincoln.'

Rowena, starved for him, raked his face with her eyes,
that close-shaven grey hair, the deep black irises, his thick,
beautiful eyelashes. She wanted to remember it always, to
keep it clearly etched in her mind. He was challenging her,
he was angry. Now that it was too late, she realized how
wise she'd been to keep away from him. Love welled up in
her like a flooded river.

'How do you think I felt?' she said. 'Why did you do that
to me with Debbie? Do you have any idea what that was
like?'

Krebs stared at her. 'Do you love him?'

'Of course.'

He shook his head. 'Don't lie to me.'

'Please, Michael, let it go,' Rowena said. She was near
breaking. It was torment to be so close, and not to be able to

touch him. 'This is the best way for everybody.'

'No it isn't,' Krebs said..

He moved closer, till he could hear her breathing, till
there were only millimetres of space between them.

'I didn't like to see him touching .you at .that party,'
Michael aid. 'You thought I couldn't see that? He had his
hand on your breasts, right in front of me.'

Rowena bit her lip. 'He can do what he likes, Michael.
I'm going to marry him.'

'Look at me,' Krebs said. 'Do it, Rowena.'

She turned her head and looked at him, and felt her
stomach cave in with lust. Her control evaporated. She'

373


moaned, she couldn't help it.

'I don't give a luck what's right or not right,' Krebs said
harshly. 'I won't let you go,' and he cupped her head in his
hands, twisting his fingers in her long hair, and pulled her to
him and kissed her.

Rowena collapsed against him, kissing him back wildly,
feeling shame at the weakness and sexual heat that rushed
through her. She-pressed her thighs together, she was
already wet, and it was getting worse. His cock was swollen
and hard against her.

Krebs put his hands on her shirt, feeling her breasts
through the fabric, her nipples erect, distended with desire
for him. He'd never forgotten how Rowena felt to hold.
Whenever he touched her, she was passionate and eager.
But this time, after an absence of months, it was like the

' first. He felt a surge of wanting explode in his chest. She was

his. He had to have her.

'We can't do it here,' Rowena gasped, pulling away.

Goddamn it, every second he had to wait now was an
eternity.

'Come on,' Krebs said, and tore out of the box, grabbing

her hand. She followed him, hoping her legs would still
work OK. Maybe people would see them.

She didn't care. She didn't care about anything. She could
only feel the blood throbbing in her legs, only hear her heart
crashing against her ribcage.

They ran down the ramp and into the backstage area.
Michael took a right up some deserted stairs and they found
themselves in a maze of corridors on the first level, above
the ground floor where the crewwere working. Krebs tried
some doors; they were all locked. They went round a
corner, right, left, and then he suddenly stopped running

and she stumbled against him.

'Now,' he said. 'Here.'

'What if somebody comes?' Rowena panted.

Krebs looked her over, pleasurably, luxuriating in her
desire for him. She moved uncontrollably under his gaze,
feeling it as though it were a physical caress.

374


'Stand against the wall,' he said, thick-voiced.
She moved back, feeling the rough brick grate against her
skin through her shirt, now soaked in sweat. All her clothes
were clinging to her. Her jeans felt heavy and awkward on
her flesh.

'If somebody comes, they'll see us,' Krebs said, reaching
for her waistband and snapping open the buttons of her
jeans in one impatient movement. Rowena gasped with
excitement, squirming against the wall. Michael smiled and
moved closer, standing to face her, and then yanked down
her jeans and panties until they were below her knees.

'They'll see you like this,' he said, and put his right hand
over her pussy, lightly, feeling her heat and moisture for
himself. 'They'll see you waiting for me.'

'Please, Michael,' Rowena managed. 'Please.'

He shook his head, barely controlling himself. 'I want to
see you,' he said. 'Standing out here, in the light. Take your
top off. Strove me your breasts.'

Her fingers were clumsy, shaking as she undid her
buttons and ripped at the clasp of her bra. It was sweet,
protracted torture for both of them, and when she was topless, standing again.st the wall in the full glare of the
striplights, her nipples sharp and full of blood, her flat
stomach tapering down to her damp sex, displayed for him,
whilst he stayed fully clothed, Michael could no longer hold
back. He rammed himself against her, kissing her mouth
and neck, one hand grabbing her breasts while the other
loosened his pants, letting his cock spring free against her
groin, and Rowena moved under his touch in ecstasy,
absolutely out of control, mad for him, parting her legs as
widely as she could. She'd dreamt of this, even with John
she'd dreamt of it, and now he was g6ing to fuck her and
take her again, she couldn't live without it, and Michael had
his fingers in between her legs, feeling his fingertips get slick
with the wetness of her, feeling her move and buck under
his touch, and then he found her, open and ready, and he
shoved himself into her, all the way up to the hilt.

'Michael!' she gasped.

375


'Rowena,' he said. 'Oh, baby,' and he started to fuck her,
up against the wall, and she felt him hard and thick inside
her, stroking her with his cock, like he was nailing her to the
wall with his cock, and she loved it, she moved with him,
and Krebs felt how totally he had mastered her now, how
completely she was his, and it made him harder, and he
wanted to tease her some more but he couldn't speak, it was
too good to speak, and he just thrust, and thrust, and thrust, deeper and harder, and she screamed a small strangled
scream, gasping her ecstasy, and he burst inside her like a
dam, feeling the wave of his orgasm consume him utterly,
pleasuring every inch of his skin, from his toes to the crown
of his skull, and he growled out her name, gripping her to
him.

376


Chapter Thirty-Three


'Excuse me, gentlemen,' said Topaz, hefting herself from
her chair with as much dignity as she could muster.

God, sometimes I hate being pregnant, she thought,
covered with embarrassment as she waddled off to the john.
What asshole invented the radiant, glowing mother-to-be?
Obviously a bachelor. And a misogynist. Christ!

There were eight men and two women in that meeting,
and the other woman didn't count because she was the
director of Personnel. So she, Topaz, sole representative of
the sisterlood - hat. - in the upper echelons of power at
American Magazines, was soundly impressing everybody
by having to rush offto pee three times an hour. Wonderful.

She glowered at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
She'd put on ten pounds apart from the weight of her lump,
her face was flushed, her ankles were swollen and the pull of
the child was straining her back. Her normally elegant feet
were strapped into wide Dr Scholl sandals, and the only
dresses she could wear were goddamn maternity tents, the
ones they made in foul shades of'feminine' pink or coveced
with iddy-biddy flowers. Topaz had her own made up, the
best she could do: ankle-length smocks in navy, with thick
white bands at the collar and cuffs, or just plain black or dark
green. It was the navy today, the most businesslike outfit in
her wardrobe.

Yeah, right. I look like an executive elephant, she told
herself, suddenly irritated beyond belief by the sight of her
red curls snaking over her shoulders. She took a velvet tie
from her pocket and pulled her hair into a severe ponytail,
then waddled back out to the meeting.

377


Harvey Smith, American's director, West Coast, was
giving a short statement on the Los Angeles view of the
threat they were facing. Around the table, the others
listening attentively were Matt Gowers, chairman; Eli
Leber, of Leber, Jason & Miller, the company's attorneys;
Damian Hart, chief financial officer; Nick Edward and
Gerald Quin, investment bankers from Maughan
Macaskill, the firm hired to advise American Magazines; Ed
Lazar, director of Sales; Neil Bradbury, director of Interna
tional; Nick Thomson, director .of Marketing; Louise
Patton, director of Personnel; and Topaz Rossi, director,
East Coast.

In other words, the board of American Magazines and
their closest advisers. Matt Gowers had refused to allow
anyone else to attend; even the notes were being taken by

Louise, as the least senior person in the room.
This was a small meeting, but a vital one.
The company was in play.

'We've got serious concerns,' Harvey was saying as she

sat down. 'The West Coast is afraid that Mansion Industries
will change the entire nature of American Magazines. From
w, hat we've been told' - he waved at Gerald Quin- 'Connor
Miles is only concerned with raising profits. We believe
he'll close all our books that aren't making a profit yet,
lower quality and ban expensive photographers and
writers. The question is, how we can persuade him that
magazine publishing works on different economic rules to
timber-felling or food retail.'

There were nods around the table.

'What do you think, Topaz?' Gowers asked.

'I think we should fight it,' she said. 'If Nick and Gerry

are right, we've got no chance of persuading Mansion of
anything. No senior management has survived for more
than a year after Mansion Industries took over their
company.'

'We can't fight Mansion. We have to be realists about
this,' Bradbury replied.

'American's a large corporation,' Lazar agreed, 'but


378

Mansion Industries is a huge conglomerate.'

'Who have never lost a takeover yet,' Damian reminded
them.

Topaz knew the tide of opinion was running against her,
but she couldn't let it go and bow to the majority. To come
so near to power, and then have it snatched away by a
greedy conglomerate? Maybe she could get another job
somewhere else - her record was exemplary - but she'd put
a lot of work into Impact and Economic Monthly and all of
them, and she was damned if she'd just walk away. Who
could tell if she'd get as many chances at Cond Nast?

The boys were taking the ostrich approach. iF i stick my
head in the sand, maybe the monster won't see me since I can't see
him. If I'm nice to Mr Miles, maybe I can persuade him to leave me
alone.

But executive elephant or no, she knew they were wrong.
When American was bought out by Mansion Industries,
every board member here was history. That was obvious.
But they didn't want to recognize it.

Topaz had caught that Quin boy looking at her when she
spoke up to object. He sounded like he knew his stuff, and it
made her even more certain she was right.

'Look, you're all way off-beam,' she burst out impatiently.
'OK, so they've never lost a takeover. Then by the
law of averages, it's about time they did.'

'Really, Topaz,' muttered Louise, in a tone that clearly
said Hormones.

'You're in Personnel. You don't know jack,' Topaz
rounded on her, infuriated by the obvious glance at her
swollen stomach. 'I run six magazines and that's what I
intend to go on doing. If everybody else is happy to kiss up
to Connor Miles and kiss their job goodbye, I'm not.'

Gowers, who had been watching her with narrowed
eyes, turned to their lawyer. 'Eli, what can we do in the first
instance?'

The older man spread his hands. 'Blocking petitions,
ownership of magazines by a non-American citizen, the
usual delaying tactics.'

379


'Do it. Immediately,' the chairman ordered. He gestured
at the investment bankers. 'We'll hire Maughan Macaskill
to represent us in a defence, as we've discussed. Topaz,
Damian and myself will be your main liaisons at the
company. Harvey, you, Ed and Neil are to prepare statistics
and presentations that would try to persuade any predator
or due diligence shark that we work best the way we are.'

'I don't get it,' Neil said. 'Which approach are we taking?
Fighting or talking?'

'Both,' Gowers answered grimly. 'In this situation, we have to try everything.'


Topaz gazed out of her window at the Manhattan skyline,
sparkling in the sun. She was sitting in a new orthopaedic
chair she'd had installed as her pregnancy advanced - or
rather, which Joe had insisted she get installed. Next to her
was a small device for monitoring her blood pressure,
which she was supposed to do every other day but couldn't
bear to. Pregnancy was one thing, stress was another, and
the combination of the two.., well, Joe would have a fit.

He should try being pregnant in the middle of a hostile
takeover. Now there's a double whammy, Topaz thought,
staring out towards the Hudson.

Summer was coming to the city.., she could see it,
from this air-conditioned eyrie, the sunlight flashing on the
tiny cars racing through the gridlike streets, glittering on
the river. She loved summer. Even when it was too hot.
And this August, of course, she'd be a mother...

Topaz felt her mood soar. A baby.., my baby! she
thought, with a rush of utter bliss. She placed her hands
tenderly on her stomach, hoping to feel it move, and was
overwhelmed by an intense surge of love and happiness.
Joe's child, our child . . .

What would it look like? Black hair, she sincerely hoped;
maybe blue eyes . . . would it be a boy or a girl? Joe had
been desperate to find out, but she'd put her foot down.

'No, I want to be surprised,' she insisted, when Dr
Martinez had put the question to them.


380

'But we could decorate the room the right colour,' Joe
begged.

Topaz had shaken her head, smiling. 'Nice try.'

They'd had the ultrasound at just three months, because
Topaz didn't want Joe to be able to cheat- 'Is he waving?'
'Yes she is, Mr Goldstein.'

When Dr Martinez had put the stethoscope down on her
stomach and they'd heard the muffled, pumping little
heartbeat, Topaz remembered with another rush of affection,
Joe - that great hulking guy - had burst int6 tears.
Afterwards he'd been so ashamed of this slip from macho
grace that he'd watched four solid hours of football and
snapped at her if she teased him about it.

Overall, though, he couldn't be more solicitous. Opening
every door, refusing to let her lift so much as a coffee
cup. Treating her like she was made of the finest porcelain.
At first it was annoying, but as the months wore on she'd
been glad 9fit; her stomach seemed incredibly heavy, like a
dragging weight on her back and feet. She was sure a baby
didn't weigh that much when you just picked it up.

The phone rang on her desk, an outside call. Topaz
smiled;Joe always called her around this time of day. Every
day.

'How's it going?'

'Fine,' Topaz replied, staring out at the bright blue sky. 'I
can tell you more tonight.'

They had Lamaze class at eight, right after Lisa Martinez
palpated Topaz's stomach, at seven, and it would take some
doing to make that appointment. But there was no way to
cancel it. They'd had the bare minimum of checkups since
the ultrasound; amniocentesis had already given the pregnancy
a clean bill of health, and Topaz was a very busy
woman.

'Too much for the phone?' he asked, then grunted when
Topaz didn't reply. 'I hate it when they stress you out over
there. Can't they see you're pregnant?'

'Joe, everyone can see I'm pregnant,' Topaz teased him,
amused by a sudden vision of her husband calling up.


38I

Connor Miles and yelling at him to lay offfor another three
months.

'OK, well, don't work too hard,' he said gruffly. 'I love
you.'

'Love you too,' she replied cheerfully.

'Topaz,' said Matt Gowers, sticking his head round the
door. 'In my office, please. Five minutes.'

She nodded at him. 'Joe, I'll see you tonight.'


If Matt Gowers noticed that his-youngest director was
looking extremely happy all of a sudden, he knew better
than to say so. Rossi had made it quite clear that she didn't
want special treatment; hormones, unruly bladders and sore
feet notwithstanding, she was clinging on to her position
with both hands. He knew some of their colleagues
considered it perverse, but Gowers wasn't so sure. Topaz
had only just completed her restructuring programme, and
late nineties or no, motherhood was still a dangerous
occupation for an ambitious female.

It's tough to look tough when you're expecting, the old
man thought to himself as Topaz walked carefully into his
office. He'd known exactly what Louise-Patton had been
trying to pull when she lost her temper at the board
meeting, and he admired Rossi for refusing to take it...

She's got a good attitude, Gowers thought. Because

frankly, right now we can't afford passengers.

'Have a seat,' he offered.

Topaz drew up a chair at the walnut table in the middle of
Gowers' luxurious office. Sitting with their backs to the
glass walls were Quin, Edward and Hart, each with several
sheets of financial data spread out in front of them.

'Basic defence work, Topaz,' Damian Hart told her,
passing across a sheaf of papers. 'Numbers, poison-pill
safeguards, stock issues . . . '

'We've just heard that you're not alone in this,' Edward
added. 'They've bid for a group of radio stations .in
California and a major record label.'

'Radio stations . . . ' Topaz mused aloud. 'Aren't they


382

going to run into FCC regulations about owning radio
stations and a print group? Are they after any other
magazine houses?'

'Small ones,' Quin replied.

'Yeah, but how many small ones?' Gowers asked, getting
his subordinate's drift. 'Can we do them for antitrust?'

'Which record label?' Topaz suddenly asked in a small

voice. The banker's words had just washed over her at first. It can't be. It can't be. Can it?

'Musica Entertainment. But they don't have any interests
in print,' Quin told her. 'If we're going for antitrust, they
aren't much help to you.'

Topaz took a slow sip of her coffee.

'That's where you're wrong,' she said.


The sun was setting over Fifth Avenue when Topaz and Joe
arrived at Dr Martinez's clinic. They held hands in the
elevator, kissing and stroking each other whenever the car
was empty. Joe kept his right arm circled protectively
around her, not wanting to let her go for a second.

It had been like this since the honeymoon. They still
fought like cats every other day, and they still couldn't bear
to be apart. Joe arrived at American Magazines the second
Topaz said she'd be off work. Topaz cancelled lunch
appointments, jumped in a cab and raced across town to
NBC to be with him. He sent her flowers for no reason. She
browsed in antique shops for hours, looking for baseball
memorabilia he might like, They were so in love they were
drunk on each other; Topaz had spent her first month back
at the office in a haze of eroticism, walking around thinking
about Joe all the time. She kept wondering if anybody
guessed; somehow the sexual hunger beating between her
legs seemed too powerful to be invisible, as if it could burn
right through her Ann Klein suit, display her nakedness to
the whole office.

The least thing could set her off. Walking past a doorway
where she'd yelled at him. Walking into the Week in Review offices. And once, she'd arrived at a board meeting first and


383

been so struck by the memory of making love to Joe on that
table that she had to sit down, bright red and weak with
desire.

Another time Goldstein called her up. 'Hi,' he said.

'Hi,' she answered, feeling herself go wet at the mere
sound of his voice. The way they'd said goodbye to each

other that morning ran through her mind like a dirty movie.
'How are you?' he asked inconsequentially.

'Fine,' she said, only trusting herself enough for monosyllables.

'Topaz, you're turning to jello,' Joe observed, mock
sternly.

'Yeah,' she said, glancing round the office to see if anyone
could see her.

'Should I get offthe phone?'

'Yeah.'

That night when they got home, Joe had ordered takeout
jello and ice cream and proceeded to eat it offthe flat of her
stomach.

Their fights had also been epic. Over how hard they both
worked. Over whether Topaz should drive herself to the
.office any more. Over maternity leave, paternity leave, and
hiring a nanny.

'Six weeks is not enough,' Goldstein maintained. 'You'll
need at least three months to bond.'

'Don't you dare tell me how to bond with my baby!'
Topaz spat, furious. 'I'm the one that's carrying it for nine
months. 1 feel it every time it kicks. If you want to stay
home and bond for three months go right ahead. Just don't
expect me to turn into Marilyn Quayle.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Joe returned angrily. 'I can't stay
home. I run programming for NBC.'

"And I run the East Coast for American Magazines.' 'Really? I'd never have guessed,' he snapped.

But the next day a huge bouquet of white roses turned up
at her office with a small rectangular package, and when she
ripped it open Topaz found a video of Mrs Doubt.fire.

Elise DeLuca, watching the expression on her boss's face,

384


had shaken her head in affectionate envy. 'The rollercoaster
marriage to end them all,' she said.


Work got tougher, Topaz got larger, and .Joe got gentler.
Paradoxically, it made her feel more vulnerable; when her
love started backing off, she couldn't help sensing his desire
to shield her and protect her, which meant she needed
shielding. Also, at around six months, they had to stop
making love, and that made her frustrated and anxious.

'Jesus, how many times!' Goldstein told her, finding her
sobbing in the bathroom one morning. 'I - don't- mind. I'd
wait for you until the end of time. Three months is
nothing.'

'What about Jane? She's so pretty and so thin,' Topaz
sobbed.

'Jane, my assistant?'Joe repeated, trying not to laugh. His
secretary was a small, mousy girl with neat brown hair cut
very short,,a wife and mother of three. 'Are you jealous of Jane?'

'Yes,' sobbed Topaz, inconsolable. She remembered
every touch of her husband on her skin, every thrust of him
inside her, all the fevered eroticism that had consumed them
both since the first time they'd made love. Joe was more
man than anyone she'd ever known. How could he be
satisfied without sex? How could he stay faithful to a
woman who looked like a beachball?

'Remember Thanksgiving?' he whispered, gathering her
into his arms.

Topaz nodded. Last November, when they'd driven to
his parents' house in Connecticut, they'd had to pull over
three times because Topaz kept teasing Joe, trying to go
down on him while he was driving. In th end they'd parked
by the side of a cornfield, spread out her coat and made love
in the stubble, kissing and tumbling and screwing each
other blind. It had taken another half-hour to pick the straw
out of their clothes and to Jean Goldstein's fury they'd
turned up very late.

'Traffic was murder, Morn,' Joe explained, kissing the


385

old lady on the cheek and hoping she wouldn't notice the scratches on his neck.
'I remember,' Topaz choked.

Joe kissed her on the temple, a soft, sexual kiss, pressing
his lips to her skin. She felt his real desire behind the gesture.

'No woman can stack up to you,' he said. 'Ever. Nobody
even comes close. Even if I didn't love you more than life, I
could never settle for a substitute,' and at that moment she
thought herself the happiest wife alive.

And troubles temporarily forgotten, Topaz felt pretty
much like that right now.


'Come in,' Dr Martinez said pleasantly, waving them to a
seat. She glanced at Topaz, briskly assessing her size and
general state of health. 'How's it going? Any probletns?'

'None,' Topaz lied, slipping offher dress and clambering
on to the raised examining couch.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. 'No back strain? You're
getting pretty large.'

'Well, maybe a little,' she admitted.

'It's a stressful time for my wife at work,' Goldstein said
irmly. 'She's a key person in a reorganization which is
going on at the moment, and I'm wondering if she should
relax more. '

Dr Martinez suppressed a smile. Joe Goldstein and Topaz
Rossi were two of her most celebrated clients, a real
Manhattan 'power couple'. They were also her favourites.
Topaz used to ring her up and ask her not to tell Joe if her
blood pressure was too high. Joe used to ring her up and ask
her to bully Topaz into taking each Monday off.

'If he knows what it's really like he'll freak,' Topaz
begged.

'She thinks I'm being sexist,' Goldstein sputtered. 'You
have to help me out, Lisa.'

'Let's have a look at you, Ms Rossi,' Martinez said
calmly. 'You were last palpated at three months, right?
That's a bit of a gap. I'd rather you increased checkups nOW. '


386

She placed a cool hand on Topaz's swollen stomach and
started to press it gently. After a few seconds she stopped
dead still, looked at Topaz, and repeated the process, more
slowly.

Joe went white. 'What's the matter? Is something wrong
with the baby? Is something wrong with Topaz?'

'Not exactly,' replied Lisa Martinez. 'But I think you
should have another ultrasound.'

'Why?' Topaz asked. A wave of anxiety spread through
her. 'What can you feel?'

'This reorganization, is it vital?' the doctor asked her
patient.

'No,' said Joe.

'Absolutely,' said Topaz. 'There's no question of me taking time offunless it's a medical necessity.'

'No, it's not a medical necessity. But I do advise you to
rest as much as you can and to avoid arguments,' she added,
looking sternly at Joe. 'You'll need as much rest as you can
get.'

Lisa Martinez smiled at the young couple. 'Congratulations,'
she said. 'You're having twins.'


After her husband had fallen asleep, Topaz Rossi lay quietly
on her black silk sheets, staring into space.

She was tired, but she couldn't stop her mind racing. Twins. Eleanor and Maria.Joe junior and Marco. Eleanor and

Joe.

Connor Miles. No one has.ever stopped him before and the guys
want to hand him American on a silver platter. Is having two
babies gonna hurt more? Should I cut down? I can't cut down . . .
Jesus, why now? Gowers won't like,t, he'll reckon I'm about to
walk out. Maybe he won't. He's seen" what we did with Impact . . . maybe if I could get the data and work from
home . . .

Antitrust. Has to be. I mean, we're not a small company, we're
not Pitt Group. We can afford Maughan Macaskill . . . but we
need help.

I'm not fucking Superwoman, I'm tired . . .


387

She's a goddamn bitch . . .

If I can save the company maybe I could succeed Matt.

wants the job but he's ready to give in and Gowers hates that
attitude.

Why should she help me? She hates me.

Look at the way she jumped at it when she got a second

chance . . . they need us. Tradeoff. Strictly business . . .
I want to keep my job. I love my work.
Can a woman really have it all?

Topaz swung her legs carefully over the side of the bed
grabbed her satin robe and padded across to her stu
flicking on the Apple. The digits on the radio glowed tz.45

a.m.

She paged through her private addresses file, found

number she was looking for and punched it into the phone i
A voice answered, not sleepily. 'Hello?'
'Hello, Rowena,' said Topaz.

388


Chapter Thirty-Four


Rowena Gordon had never been so powerful, celebrated
and rich.

She was president of Musica Worldwide, the first woman
to hold such high office in the record business. She was one
half of a glittering Hollywood couple. She had liquidated
her own consultancy for a personal profit of $6,ooo, ooo. She was profiled in Newsweek and Forbes. Her social appearances
with John Metcalfwere reported by Marissa Matthews and
Liz Smith. o

Rowena Gordon had never been so pressured.

Day and night she found herself struggling to make sense
of financial data, company histories, legal defences for her
company. Rowena, Sam Nell and a bitter Hans Bauer
arranged for as many big acts as possible to include
'keyman' provisions in their contracts, making Musica a
less attractive target. It was a losing battle. Connor Miles
bought parcels of stock wherever he could find them,
hiding his interest behind webs of holding companies and
fake subsidiaries.

Rowena Gordon had never been so unhappy.

'What are you thinking about?' John would ask her after
they finished making love, and she would turn aside, kiss
him and whisper, 'Nothing.'

Michael. Michael. Michael.


'Spain was a mistake.'

Rowena Gordon sat opposite Michael Krebs in the Oak
Room at the Plaza, sipping a fine cognac and trying to sound
as confident as she looked. She was wearing an Adrienne .

389


Vittadini dress in fluid peach chiffon, Stuart
mules and a sapphire bracelet, intentionally chosen to match
her engagement ring.

Michael wore jeans and a black sweatshirt and

sneakers, and he radiated authority and intensity. She had to
use every inch of her self-assurance to prevent her res

to his mere presence showing up in her face.

'No it wasn't,' he said flatly.

Oh, this was hard, Rowena thought. It truly was hard.
Michael was fifty now, still with those knockout black eyes,
still with that salt-and-pepper hair, still with that mus,
torso that paid tribute to a lifetime of taking care of himself.
Still, to her - she tried unsuccessfully to suppress
thought even as it surfaced - the most desirable man in th
world. In terms of classic good looks, Michael couldn't hold
a candle to John Metcalf. She knew that. She'd never, as she!:
had with John, had her breath taken away by his pure beauty
in certain positions, under certain lights.

But Michael's sexuality hung about him like perfume.
She saw he was staring at her.
'What is it?' she demanded.

'I was thinking how proud you've made me,' Krebs said.

'Thanks,' she smiled, angry with herself for being
disappointed with that reply.

Come on, Rowena. He never lied to you. He was never a jerk
about it. He said straight out that he didn't love you and never
would, he said he was your friend and that was it. He doesn't want

)OU.

'And I was thinking how much I want you back,' he
added, not looking at her.

'Come on, Michael. You really don't mean that,'
Rowena said calmly.

'Oh, I really do,' Krebs said. 'I really do.'

'Do you love me?' Rowena asked, despising herself for
her weakness.

Michael battled with himself. It would be so easy just to
say yes to that, and then she'd never deny him again.

'No,' he said. 'I don't love you. But I do want you. I miss

390


you around in my life. I miss watching you have those
Richter-scale orgasms.'

Tm with somebody else now,' she said.

'But you enjoyed it. We had fun together.'

'We had a lot of fun together,' she agreed, determined to

stay composed. 'But now I'm with John.'

'So what?' demanded Krebs.

'What do you mean, so wkat?' Rowena shot back. 'So I'm
not gonna cheat on him.'

'You can't even meet my eyes,' Michael said, and started
to look her over, slowly, a sexual, assessing look.

Rowena could feel his gaze, and blushed scarlet. He was
right, she didn't dare look up.

'So tell me about John,' Krebs said conversationally. 'Is it
good, with him?'

'Yes it is. It's very good, OK? Enough, Michael. I don't

want to talk about this with you.'

'Does he atisfy you?'

'Yes, he does,' said Rowena defiantly. He was still
looking at her like that. 'And cut it out.'

'So look at me,' Michael said. 'Come on, Rowena. I
mean, your boyfriend satisfies you, so you shouldn't be
afraid to look me in the face.'

She looked up and glanced at him. 'OK? Now let it go.'
She was so wet and aroused for him. -Jesus. This is killing the.

'He must be quite a man, if he can satisfy you,' Michael
said, adding mercilessly, 'so you come for him like you
came for me.'

Rowena stared straight ahead of her, stony-faced.

'That is true, right?' Michael pressed her. 'You come as
hard for him as you came for me.'

'Yes!' Rowena snapped. 'That's right. Now shut the luck


Michael put his hand under her chin, and turned her face
sharply towards him. His touch on her skin was electric.

'That's the second time you*ve lied to me,' he said. 'I
don't like it.'
391


'It's over,' she said.

'I could get us a room here, right now,' Michael said, as if
she hadn't spoken. 'I could take you upstairs and push you
across the desk. I could fuck you on your hands and knees,
on the floor.'

Rowena looked down at her untouched fruit salad, aware
that she was flushing bright red with longing.

Please. You have to let me go,' she whispered.

'I will not,' he said.

'What do you want?' she demanded, raising her head and
staring him in the face. 'What do you want of me? I've had
success and a good relationship without you. Now you
want me to come back to you and screw it all up for myself.
Why? For what? Isn't it just sex? Isn't that what you always
said?'

'You fascinate me,' he said.

Rowena closed her eyes for a split second. The force of his
personality radiated across the table like heat from an open
oven.

'You love me, Michael,' she said.

'No.'

,
	'Yes, you do. You love me,' she said.

Then she stood up and walked out.


Michael. Michael. Michael.

It had become an obsession.

Even as she organized her own wedding, posed for the
society photographers and worried herself sick about
Musica, his name beat in the back of her mind like a drum.
After the blinding, intense, wonderful ecstasy of what had
happened to her in Barcelona, she was incapable of shoving
him into the background of her mind.

When she'd left New York, she had left him behind her.
The combination of failure in business and the sudden
awareness of Michael's wife had been a double whammy
that had utterly destroyed her.

Cowhide gave her back her control. Cowhide let her
work day and night. It gave her something to fight for. It let


392

her forget Michael Krebs, and gave her a little space to grow
fond of John, to rediscover pleasure in sex with someone
else.

But now she was back in New York, in his city, with his
band, working with him every day, and resistance was
futile.

She loved him so fiercely it hurt.

She wanted him so much she could scream.

One morning, on the way to work, she had found herself
driving miles out of her way, to Turtle Bay where he lived.
She'd parked the Mercedes a few yards down the street from
the Krebses' house and just stared at it. It had been six
o'clock in the morning, and the tree-lined streets were
empty in the predawn darkness.

She had just stared at the front of the house for twenty
minutes and then driven away.

She knew it was unhealthy. Dumb, narrow and faithless
to her own partner.

Krebs had never even admitted he was having an affair.
'Just two friends who have great sex,' he told her.

She'd asked about everything. His brothers. His unemotional
parents. High school. College. How he'd lost his
virginity. Everything remotely connected with him was
endlessly intriguing to her.

Now she began to dream up ridiculous ideas. Like finding
where his father had his medical practice and booking an
appointment, just to see what David Krebs looked like. Of
finding the art gallery where Debbie worked and going to
have another look at her.

Rowena did none of these things. She flew out to LA
every week, avoided Michael, and worked on the defence of
Josh Oberman's company. At least staying at the top was
something she cared about passionately.

Because what can you do when the fairytale goes wrong?
When you find the love of your life, and he belongs to
someone else?


'I think we have a problem.' Hans Bauer's voice was

393


gravelly with concern. , ....

'No shit, Miss Marple,' snapped Joshua Oberman. He sat

at the head of the Musica boardroom table, staring down at
a photocopy of a letter addressed to Rowena Gordon from
Waddington, Edwards & Harris, Mansion Indus
lawyers.

Central Park was bathed in the setting sun outside
windows, and the rays were reflecting off the 17
trophies hanging all over the walls, so that at certain angle
Rowena was dazzled. She lovedthis time of day;
Perdita's Holding Out sparkling gold across the
mahogany floors, Black Ice's Cry Wolf and Run silver, and the huge Atomic Mass displays for Heat and Zenith glittering light back from twenty platinum disc

'We've got a bunch of fucking problems. Like

fucking company's going up in smoke. Jesus Christ, I'm
gonna have to sit here and watch while it slips into the hands
of a bunch of fucking accountants,' Oberman cursed. He

looked older and greyer than Rowena had ever seen him.
'There has to be something we can do,' she muttered.
Actually, I don't think there is,' said Hans Bauer,
,sounding almost pleased about it. 'The terms of this letter:
are clear. If we keep on spinning keyman clauses into our
artists' contracts, they're going to sue for dilution of assets.
They own shares, so they have every right to do it. And our
lawyers think they will win.'

'They won't win over Atomic Mass,' Rowena said, with
some sharpness. 'I found them, I've been their manager's
closest friend for years and I've been involved in every
aspect of their career, production and touring included. If
Musica wanted me back, I can legitimately say I demanded a
keyman clause.'

'You might be right. But the case could take years. They
could put an injunction on the release of their third album,'

Maurice LeBec pointed out.
'We have clout.'
'Mansion has more.'

'Then we should have more! Why do they want a record


394

company, Maurice? Who else are they targeting? Can we
get some kind of common defence?' Rowena demanded.

Jesus Christ! Like these jerks give a damn about the artists!

They've all got stock and they want to be rich. Well, fuck that, I
justgot here, she thought furiously.

'It's a good point. We know Connor Miles is South
African,' Oberman interjected. 'There are laws about
foreign nationals owning media companies.'

'Communications media. Not records,' said Jakob van
Rees.

'So we buy a fucking radio station. We buy three,'
shrugged Rowena.

'They'll sue,' objected LeBec.

'Who are the other targets, Hans? Didn't you tell me there
were others?'Josh asked.

The senior executive group president, Finance, gave a
petulant shrug. 'Prime Radio in California. Four or five
small print companies, a daily newspaper in Chicago and
American Magazines.'

'The guy thinks the United States is his fucking supermarket,'
Oberman said outraged. 'He's trying to buy Prime
Radio and us and American Magazines at the same time? How much money does he have, anyway?'

'Enough,' said Bauer and LeBec together.

'I would like to point out that Musica Entertainment is
not an American company,' van Rees added, with a sour
look at Rowena. 'Madam President may have forgotten it,
working in New York for all this time, but Musica is
incorporated in Holland.'

'Will that make a difference?' Oberman asked her, his
brown eyes ignoring the rest of the executive committee.
'Antitrust, I mean?'

'Ask a lawyer,' his president replied. 'And ask an
investment banker.'

Oberman nodded, and winced.

'Are you OK?' Rowena asked.

'Sure,' the old man said, grimacing a little. 'Heartburn.
I'm fine.' He turned to the men around the table and waved '

395


them away in a crabby gesture of dismissal. 'We'redone for
now, people.'

With a few ugly glances at their new president, Maurice
LeBec, Hans Bauer andJakob van Rees left the room.

'Rowena, can I see you for a second?' Oberman asked,.
putting a withered hand on her arm.

'Sure,' she said.

Josh glanced at the heavy, gleaming doors of the boar
room, waiting until LeBec had completely shut them
behind him. Then he said sharply, 'Gordon, I don't wan
those guys within ten feet of our investment bankers.'

Rowena nodded, her shimmering hair swinging against
the burgundy collar of the Herv Leger dress she'd
for this meeting. They called Leger 'the king of cling'
Paris, and the crossover number that hugged
waist and accentuated her small breasts and the slight
of her ass was no exception. Teamed with Versace sling
backs and a thick gold bangle, the outfit was
suitable for work, but it threw off a disturbing sense
sexuality behind the neat tailoring and expensive fabric..

Oberman had managed a faint smile when he saw it; he

0 knew Rowena inside out and he knew it was a deliberate dig
at the other directors, who'd made it obvious how unhappy
they were at having to report to a female, especially one
who was younger than they were.

The sensible fmale executive would have gone for
ultra-conservative suits, boxy jackets and neutral colours.
Rowena made a point of exaggerating her femininity - deal
with it, boys. Oberman liked that; the kid had never been one
to kiss ass.

'I was thinking the exact same thing,' she agreed, 'They want to get bought out. Hans Bauer hates my guts.'

'Yeah, well. He's not gonna vote me Prom King either.
Who are we hiring? Maughan Macaskill?'

'They've been stalling me. I think someone else got in
there first,' Rowena answered.

He noticed she seemed preoccupied, the elegant fingers
tapping aimlessly on the table, the green eyes clouded.


396

'Spit it out, babe,' Oberman ordered, wincing again.
'It's just something Hans said about the other targets,'
Rowena said. She pushed her chair back. 'I think I should
make a few calls.'

'Let me know as soon as you've decided on the investment
bank,' he said.

It wasn't till Oberman got back to his suite at the Pierre
and found his copy of Economic Monthly waiting for him on
his desk that he realized, with a stab of apprehension,
exactly what she'd meant.


American Magazines. They're trying to buy American
Magazines, Rowena thought, as she spun her Mercedes
down Second Avenue.

It was late at night, and the city was melting into the
bright lights of the traffic and neon billboards. She'd just
come from a long dinner meeting with Barbara Lincoln,
and it hadn't.been encouraging.

'We want you to have that keyman clause. We don't want
Josh Oberman to have to watch Musica go down the drain,'
her friend had told her over grilled pheasant at Lutce. 'But
the boys are having their moment in the sun right now. I
can't guarantee it'll last for ever and I have to put them first.
If Mansion Industries buy you out we are walking. Even if I
have to split them up and re-form with a different name and
a keyboard player.'

Rowena had shuddered. Musica without Atomic Mass
was unthinkable.

I have to stop this from happening.

With a boss who's too old to know what he's doing, a board who
are probably on Connor Miles' s payroll'right now, and a company
too small io resist this predator.

They're trying to buy out American Magazines.

She just launched Impact there . . . she's not gonna be happy
about it...

She'll tell me to go to hell.

I'd deserve it.

By the time Rowena had picked up her mail from the


397

doorman, though, her mind was made up.

John loved her, and that was good. And she was fond of
him. It wasn't such a disaster.

But there had to be some passion in life. Something you
love so intensely you would suffer any humiliation to hold
on to it. Something that meant you were alive, not merely
living.

And without Michael Krebs, Musica was all she had left.
Rovena strode through the door of her
up her coat and leafed through her messages. John. Josh
twice. She could call him in the morning. Zach Freeman:
called from Berlin to say hi. That was sweet, Rowenai
thought, walking across the room to pick up the phone
which had started trilling on her desk.

Who the hell would call me at half-midnight? Not

again . . . that guy doesn't know the meaning of'unavailable'. 'Hello?' she said.

There was a split-second pause, and in that instant
Rowena suddenly knew exactly whom she was speaking to.

'Hello, Rowena,' said Topaz Rossi.

398


Chapter Thirty-Five


Nobody in the White Horse Tavern took any notice of
them. Why should they? A mother-to-be and her friend

sipping fruit juices in the village on a summer afternoon.
Which was exactly how they both wanted it.

'Grill Room at the Four Seasons,' Rowena had suggested.
'You have to be kidding! Entertainment industry and
Wall Street- we might as well put an ad in the Times,' Topaz
scoffed. 'How about the River Cafe?'

'I know too many people who lunch there,' Rowena said.
'Maybe we should go somewhere a little less obvious.'

'Fine,' her rival answered coolly. 'I know the closest thing
to a pub in the United States. In the Village. White Horse
Tavern on Hudson Street.'

'Tomorrow at three,' Rowena agreed, and they hung up.

It was the first private conversation the two women had
had for a decade.


Rowena dressed casually: black jeans, a white Donna Karan
shirt, tan cowboy boots. She wondered whether or not to
take her notes on Mansion House but decided against - if
they didn't wind up working together, Christ only knew
what Rossi might do with the information.
In the cab on the way there she wondefed about Topaz; it
was amazing how their minds still worked the same way.
She would have called American Magazines the next day if
Topaz hadn't reached her first. It was surely the only way.
Musica Entertainment on its own couldn't withstand a
raider with such a huge capital base, and neither could
American Magazines. But trying to buy both at the same


399

time must be stretching Mansion. Maybe together they

could work something out.

Maybe.

Rowena couldn't count on any more than that: a gut
feeling that Topaz Rossi would fight as hard for her slice of
American Magazines as she would for Musica. It wasn't an
ideal set of circumstances.

Two rivals who'd been publicly scrapping for years.

Two women only recently promoted to the tops of their
respective trees.

Two executives with just a heartbeat's really senior
experience between them.

They might both be past thirty but in financial terms they
were still kids. Green, wet behind the ears, whatever. No
knowledge of investment banking. Diehard specialists in
their own industries.

Creatives, for God's sake. In a situation like this, that was

a dirty word.


Topaz stepped carefully out of the cab, tipped the guy ten
bucks and sat down at the first table she could see. She'd
deliberately arrived early; being there when Gordon arrived
was just one more way of establishing primacy.

Weird, Topaz thought. I could have sworn Rowena was
expecting that call.

But how could she?

Unless she was thinking the same thing. Unless she was
planning to call me.

Topaz ordered a Caesar salad and fresh orange juice and
considered American's position: Sales were up, profits were
up, market share was up. Under her personal scheme for the
East Coast, they'd closed down three poor performers,
including White Light, totally revamped a fourth - US
Woman, now second only to Homes and Gardens in its
market, taken Westside national and, of course, launched Impact- the debut of the decade, the reason Matt Gowers let
her get away with so much.

She shook her head, wooden bead earrings swinging in


400

the light breeze. No way Mansion House can outmanage us.
This board knows exactly what it's doing.

Santa Maria, she hated having to do this, hated it! As if
twins and a takeover wasn't enough! Now she had to
arrange meetings with Rowena Gordon, too. A woman
whose career she, Topaz, had personally blown away.

That had made them quits. She'd hoped that was an end
of it. Yeah, of course she'd read about some consultancy in
California, and of course she'd seen Rowena make president
of Musica last month. But it hadn't mattered to her, why
should it? Rowena had got hers, and if she'd managed
another resurrection more power to her. Topaz had other
things to occupy her mind: marriage, the new directorship,
the pregnancy, the takeover...

Past history. It had an annoying way of refusing to stay
past.

With a slight intake of breath, she saw her old rival
walking do;con the street towards her. Topaz waved; a
short, tight movement, enough to show Rowena where she
was. The other woman saw her and threaded her way
through the wooden tables.

Christ! Rowena thought. Look at that!

Envy flashed through her. Topaz was hugely pregnant,
beautiful in a plain black maternity smock that reached
down to her ankles and bared her toned, tanned upper arms.
She had her mass of red curls elegantly pinned on top of her
head, sexy earrings dangling round her neck and a radiant
complexion. As she shook.hands briskly Rowena saw the
two rings, engagement and wedding, glint on Topaz's left

hand. She flashed back to that handsome NBC exec,
standing with his arm round Topaz at the Martins' party,

and the sense of her own loneliness was rushing.

No time for that now, Rowena told herself.

'I'm glad you came. I think American and Musica can be

of use to each other,' Topaz said briskly.

'I agree,' Rowena said instantly.

For a second the two women looked at each other, and a
thousand questions, remarks, accusations hung in the air.

4oi


Rowena Gordon looked away first. Obviously it would

be best if their business could be conducted without
personal remarks of any kind, but Topaz was so magnificently,
unignorably pregnant that she just had to say
something.

She nodded at Topaz's swollen stomach. 'Congratulations.
When is it due?'

'Two months. Twins,' she replied coldly, acknowledg

ing Rowena's comment with the briefest inclination of the
head.

'What do you think we can do about this?' Rowena asked,
beckoning a waiter over. 'The chicken salad and a glass of
white wine, please. My guess is that we have roughly three
weeks to put something together before our lawyers get
thrown out of court.'

Topaz nodded. 'We're in the same position.' She gave
Rowena a hard look, as if assessing something, and then
said,. 'I have a different take on Mansion to some of my
colleagues.'

Rowena smiled. The too. Like you believe surrender isn't

the only option?'

, 'Exactly like that.'

'OK.' Rowena ticked offthe possibilities on her fingers.
'Offthe top of my head: we could merge; we could form a
loose holding company for the purposes of this takeover,
and buy enough communications companies to stop him
buying us, because he's a foreigner-'

Like you, limey, Topaz thought but didn't say so.

' - or we could do something like pooling our capital and
implementing a stock repurchase.' She speared a forkful of
crunchy lettuce and croutons.

'Merger doesn't make much sense. We've got nothing in
common.'

'We've got Connor Miles in common,' Rowena
answered rather sharply.

'You will never sell a merger to your board, Rowena, and

I know I won't. Trust me on this. But financial partnership
makes more sense.'

402


'You've got something in mind,' said Rowena.

It wasn't a question, it was a satement. She knew that
look on Rossi's face only too well - the exact same look
she'd had as a student when she was about to nail some poor
sonofabitch to the wall in Cherwell.

'Ever heard of the Pac-man defence?' Topaz asked
shrewdly.

Rowena's wine glass halted in mid-air. 'You are fucking
kidding,' she said slowly.

Of course she knew what the Pac-man defence was - the
prey turns round and swallows the predator. It had
happened a few times in the billion-dollar-deal explosion of
'8 and more often in the takeover frenzy that had gripped

Wall Street in the heady madness of the Reagan boom. Take Mansion Industries over?

'I'm not kidding. We don't have time for jokes,' Topaz
said impatiently. 'I think it could be done. They're getting
greedy, they haven't thought this one through. Entertainment
might be a growth sector but they're rushing into it;
we're two big organizations.'

'And you think they've been neglecting their other
businesses?' Rowena asked, food and drink completely
forgotten.

My God. What if it is possible? What if we could pull that off?. 'Totally. This will be a disaster for them. Like Sorry and
Columbia Pictures; they reckoned they knew how to run any industry, but films is too human, it has too many
variables. Just like magazines,' Topaz replied.

'Numbers. Financing. Secrecy,' Rowena interrupted, her
green eyes alight. 'How can we do this and contain it in the
time?'

'Maughan Macaskill are our investmerit bankers -'
'Goddamn it, I've been trying to hire them.'

'I know,' said Topaz, with a slight smile. 'They have a
specialist analyst who's been following Mansion for years.
He thinks he can put together a proposal for breaking it
down and selling it offthat would make all the buyers rich.
If we banded together to buy it and provided cash and .

403


equity, a number of buyout firms would come in with
bonds '

'Junk bonds?'

'It's not like it used to be, OK,' Topaz said. 'They'd be
providing debt. But we'd obviously need to work out the
numbers very, very carefully.'

Td have to sell it to Joshua Oberman, our CEO. And
you'd need to sell it to your board.'

Topaz shook her head. 'Our chairman Matthew Gowers

has absolute control, but I would need to sell it to him.'

The two women held each other's eyes for a long
moment.

'Are you in?' Topaz demanded.

Rowena nodded. Tm in,' she said.


'... and now we have the fourth top ten smash from Zenith, another Atomic album that just can't be stopped!
This is "Sweet Savage", right here on K '

John Metcalf flicked off the radio and spun his Maserati

up Sunset. Jesus, he thought. I can't stand to hear that
fucking band.

He was as mad as hell. He couldn't believe it. His fiancre
had woken him up this morning to tell him she'd be stuck in
New York for the next three weeks. Three weeks!

'Rowena, this is getting ridiculous,' he snapped. 'We had

an agreement and it involved you coming down here on
Friday nights.'

'I know, I know,' she pleaded. 'But this is the last time.
Either it works or it doesn't, but I'll need this time-'

'For what? For what? Mansion's damn takeover? Can't
you see it's a lost cause? Ask a fucking banker, for Christ's
sake!'

'John. You can come up here '

'You run the company on your own, Supergirl? Uh?
What about your division heads and your board and your
boss? Can't they help? Music has you Monday through
Friday day and night! Since when does it need your weekends
too?' he yelled, pushing his hand through his hair.


4o4

She hung up on him.

She fucking hung up on me! Metcalf thought, incensed.
My own wife! Or at least about to be my own wife. I don't need this shit. | don't need to be fighting about work every
damn day of the week!

Was it going to be like this for the rest of his life?

Unlike just about any other man in LA in his position,
John Metcalfwas a feminist. He always had been; it was no
big deal, it seemed natural to him. He believed in the free
market and that meant giving everyone a fair break...
there was no racism or sexism at Metropolis, because top
management thought it was bad business.

He'd found Rowena Gordon totally attractive from the
first moment he saw her and a big part of that was due to her
hunger, her ambition. She was himself reflected. Metcalf
saw himself in a skirt - whizz-kid, kick-ass little maverick
carving out an empire in a tiny outpost of a big company.
Hadn't he done the same thing? When he'd been assigned to
Metropolis, it was making thirty second commercials for
dog foods. He'd started with one shoestring picture and
built the first movie studio to qualify as a major since Orion.
No wonder Cage Entertainment had been pleased with
him. No wonder he was the youngest baby mogul to hit
town.

But ambition was one thing. Obsession was another.
What kind of workaholic put her life on hold?

Metcalf pressed his foot on the gas. He was getting
frustrated. He couldn't stop,thinking about her. About that
lithe, naked body leaping in his arms. About her long,
feathery hair brushing his cock. About the way she moaned
deep in the back of her throat when-she was getting close to
orgasm.

Jesus Christ!

There had been that new girl at Jack's party last week.
The compliant little brunette, stacked, tanned and stupid. A Playboy fantasy in the flesh.

The kind of girl he'd always steered clear of.

He wondered if he still had her number.

405

'Really?' asked Matt Gowers.

	'Yes,' said Topaz, intently.

She was sitting in the chairman's office and it was nine at
night; the only time he'd had available all day. Normal
defence work had started at 7 a.m. with a review of their
legal position, broken at lunch for half an hour, and carried
right through till half-eight. Topaz had been hunched over
her computer till her eyes ached and she hated it. Maths was
never her strong suit.

		she couldn't complain. As the hours wore on, the

	Still,

facts became clearer. Costs had been squeezed as tight as
possible without hurting the papers; after her own revamp
of the East Coast, Harvey had followed suit in LA.

'I can't get one extra dime out of these, and Mansion
couldn't either,' Damian Hart asserted, and the bankers
seemed to agree.

Topaz had also managed to talk a little more to Gerald
Quin about their own idea. 'Are we totally leftfield with
this?' she'd asked quietly.

	The young man shook his head. 'Nothing's leftfield if it


	can be done.'

So she'd summoned up her courage and asked to speak to
Gowers alone after work; ill can ring up Rowena Gordon I
can go pitch my own supervisor, she told herself.

Outside his thick glass walls Manhattan was a carpet of
electric light, sparkling and moving; the cars seemed to race
faster, the skyscrapers to jab higher, pounding along with
her heartbeat. What if he thought she was way off-base?
What if he thought she was blinded by personal ambition?
That she was a hysterical pregnant woman?

But Gowers hadn't thrown her out. He was listening.
'Gerald Quin has been analysing this company for years
and he swears the deal finances itself,' Topaz insisted.
'Look, boss. If Connor Miles gets hold of this company
we're all history.'

'We've got a duty to the stockholders,' the older man
warned her.


406

'I realize that,' Topaz replied, trying to cool her impatience.
'But our duty is long-term, right? For all the stock
might rise fifteen per cent from a takeover bid it'll have
fallen thirty per cent when he publishes his first set of
results.'

She leant forward, the edge of her stomach resting
against Gowers' mahogany desk. 'Matt, you wanna
retire?' she asked softly. 'Because there aren't that many
spots open for unemployed CEOs at the other big magazine
houses.'

Matthew Gowers looked down at the breakdown of
Mansion Industries she'd put on his desk.

'All right, let's do it,' he said. 'And Rossi - keep it quiet.'


Rowena Gordon spent a couple of hours wondering how to
broach the subject, then called Josh Oberman at home.

'Gordon, know what the time is?' Oberman snapped.
'This better he good. Found me an investment bank?'

'Topaz Rossi at American Magazines called me,' Rowena
said. 'She wants to form a consortium with us, get some
debt backing and take over Mansion Industries. They
already hired Maughan Macaskill and there's a guy there, a
specialist in conglomerates, who knows Mansion back

wards. He reckons we'd have a good chance of doing it.'
There was a pause.

'Let me get this right,' Oberman repeated. 'Musica
Records and American Magazines team up and buy out

Connor Miles. In a hostile deal.'

'You got it,' said Rowena.

Oberman cackled, a great rasping laugh sputtering across
the Atlantic.

'Gordon, you are one insane girl. But why the fuck not?'
I've got nothing better to do.'

'Are you serious?' Rowena demanded.

'If you are,' he said, his tone suddenly changing. 'And
you are serious, Rowena, right?'

'Yes, sir. It's difficult but not impossible and it's the only
chance we have.'

407


'Then we'll try it. I'm old, but I'm not dead,' Oberman
said. 'And Rowena- I don't want the executive committee
involved.'


Gerry Quin was running on high octane.

He wanted this deal so bad he could taste it. A win fee
would net millions for Maughan Macaskill.

More to the point, it would make his reputation. Forget
Kravis. Forget Wasserstein. He, Quin, would be Wall
Street's new boy wonder - David slaying the mighty.
Goliath of Mansion Industries. It was the
and owing to one stupid, overconfident
he could have American and Musica at the same time
Connor Miles had set him up for it.

Practically an engraved invitation.

American and Musica. Big corporations, but not big
enough to stand up to the conglomerate. Companies who'd
only recently reshuffled their boards. Executives ready to

try anything to hang on to their first taste of real power.
They were cornered.
They were desperate.
They would fight.

Nick Edward and he drew up a quick fee agreement and
advised on the deal team. it had to be kept from as many
people as possible; surprise was going to be key. Topaz
Rossi offered the use of her house on Beekman Place, and
they arranged to meet there on Friday morning at 7 a.m.

From American Magazines, Gowers took Rossi, Harvey
Smith, Damian Hart and Eli Leber. From Musica, Joshua
Oberman took Rowena Gordon and James Harton, the
company lawyer. He also invited, at Gerry's suggestion, the
producer Michael Krebs, who worked on most of Musica's
star acts, and finally Barbara Lincoln, the manager of
Atomic Mass.

Both these last two would be needed for public relations
purposes- if he could threaten the stockholders with a talent
walkout if Mansion got hold of Musica, that would be
effective. Anyway, Oberman told the bankers that Barbara


408

Lincoln was a trained entertainment lawyer and had run his
Business Affairs and Legal Department for years.

'Woman's forgotten more about our contracts that I ever
knew,' he said gruffly.

They'd start work tomorrow morning.

Gerry Quin could hardly wait.


It was only seven in the morning, and limos were piling up
along the tree-lined street. If anybody noticed anything,
though, they weren't about to say. In this part of town,
most of the neighbours would die rather than admit to
curiosity about a thing like that.

Topaz was ready for them.


'We have to do this, right?' Joe had asked weakly the night
before, lugging in armfuls of frozen pizzas and a case of
mixed HagenDazs.

'Right,' Topaz answered, hardly looking up from her
figures. 'You're not going to try and stop me, baby, are
you? Because that would be bad for my blood pressure.' She
patted her stomach gently.

'No, no, you do what you want,' said Goldstein hastily,
recoiling from the threat.

Topaz smiled to herself. Who'd ever believe she'd resort
to feminine wiles?

Joe had the last laugh, though. When their alarm rang at
six on Friday he got up, showered as normal, and wandered
offto dress.

'What are you wearing?' his wife asked, propping herself
up on one elbow and sleepily pushing away a mass of
crimson curls.

Her htsband was pulling a Mets T-shir't over black Levi's
and his favourite pair of beat-up sneakers. 'What does it

look like?' he asked.

'|t's Friday.'

'It is, 'Joe agreed amiably, 'and I'm staying here with you. I've taken the day off.'

'You've done what! You can't do that!' Topaz protested.


4o9

'Everyone'll be here in forty minutes.'

'Try and stop me. There's no way I'm letting you run this
one on your own,' he said, grinning. 'Anyway, you seem to

forget that I do know a little about American Magazines.'
'No outsiders,' Topaz objected feebly.

Tm not an outsider. I'm your husband,'Joe said, coming
back to the bed and pressing her head to him in a leisurely
kiss.


Matt Gowers was the first to arrive and Barbara Lincoln.
resplendent in the smoothest cream cashmere by Nicole
Farhi - the last, but by seven fifteen everyone had
bled. Introductions were brisk and unsociable, Joe
out coffee, and they started right in.

'Partners,' Joshua Oberman began. 'What are. the
sibilities?'

Instant pandemonium. The bankers and the lawyers
started talking at once. Topaz started flicking on various
computers brought over from the office, and

Gowers and Josh Oberman veered off on a tangent,
discussing debt ratios between themselves.

Michael glanced over at Rowena. It was Josh Oberman
who'd insisted he be here, and Krebs had sensed her effort
not to look at him as soon as he'd walked through the door.
Her handshake and her greeting had been as dry as dust.
She'd been about that cordial to Topaz Rossi.

What a weird atmosphere, Michael thought, scoping the
room. All these people with nothing in common, excepl;
this deal. The lawyers - and Barbara, holy shit, I never saw
that girl as a lawyer- sniping at each other. The merchant
bankers doing figures with the finance guys. The CEOs

obviously at the start of a beautiful friendship. And Rowena with Ms Rossi.. 'Interesting, isn't it?'

Krebs looked up to see Joe Goldstein standing in front of
him with a mug of black coffee.

'Thanks,' he said. 'I'm Michael Krebs. I produce records
for Josh Oberman. '


4IO

Joe nodded. 'Atomic Mass, Roxana, Black Ice. And you
did The Salute by Three Legions. Right?'

'That's right,' said Michael, surprised. The Salute had
been his first really big hit, out on CBS more than fifteen

years ago. 'You're well informed.'

'It pays, 'Joe said, shrugging.

Both men watched Rowena and Topaz. They were deep
in discussion with Harvey Smith about something, but their
body language ignored Smith completely. Rowena's eyes
kept sliding across to Topaz while her colleague was
talking. When Rowena turned to Harvey, they saw Topaz

shift on her seat, watching the other woman intently.
'Yeah, it is interesting,' Krebs agreed.

'You know Rowena Gordon well?' Joe asked.

He couldn't suppress a smile. 'For years.'

'What's she like?' Goldstein asked, surprised at his own
curiosity. After he'd met Rowena at Liz Martin's party he'd
hated her.guts. Stuck-up English bitch! No wonder she'd
given his baby a rejection complex, she was as cold as liquid
hydrogen. But Topaz had torpedoed her career in retaliation
and when she told him she'd called Rowena about
Mansion, Goldstein had been stunned that the woman even
agreed to a meeting.

And now here they were, in his house, in partnership.
Business is business, but still.., there was something
strange about it.

'She's intense,' Michael said, and Joe watched a strange
expression come over his face.

Check it outt. This guy is her lover! he realized, in a sudden
flash of insight. But Rowena Gordon was in the middle of
the media romance of the year! Wasn't she?

'What's Topaz Rossi like?' Krebs wag asking him, equally
curious.

'She's intense,' Joe replied, and they exchanged glances.
'Have you got croissants cooking through there?'
'Uh-huh. Let's go eat.'


It was impossible to remain brisk and businesslike when'


4II

you were working eighteen-hour days. Something they all
discovered over the first weekend, when the place was
covered with empty pizza cartons and beer cans, and Matt
Gowers was discovered with Josh Oberman cracking up to Beavis and Butt-head on the kitchen TV.

Edward had his Quotron terminal delivered to the house
and hooked up. Harvey Smith started to take meetings by
conference call in a spare bedroom. Rowena called Sam Neil
and asked him to take over for a week. Josh and Matt
worked by fax.

'There's a kind of sick pleasure in pushing yourself this
hard,' Topaz remarked at eleven thirty one evening, as
Goldstein's PowerMacintosh ran off yet another colour
chart for Freyja Timber.

'Yeah. It's like Mods. Remember that? A huge pile of
books, a huge pot of coffee and three packs of pro-plus,'
Rowena said to her.

There was a second's complete silence.

'Let's get another pizza. I'm starving,' Eli Leber butted in
hastily.

Then there was the time that Joe had been mixing Bloody
Marys and Topaz said automatically, 'Rowena likes a lot of
Worcester sauce, sweetheart.'

'You haven't changed at all, you know that?' Rowena told
Topaz one night when she was tapping away at the IBM.
'You always used to crouch like that. Exactly like that.'

'That's right. And you always bugged the hell out of me
by reading over my shoulder. The way you are right now,'
Topaz replied, and they actually laughed.

'You know, I think this deal.might work. Did you hear
that Steel, Roven bought in?'

'For an equity stake, too. Not just debt,' Topaz agreed.

'What sex are your children going to be?' Rowena asked
suddenly.

'No idea,' Topaz replied, looking round. 'Why?'

'Nothing,' Rowena said, and wondered why she was so
close to tears.

412


Once the final break-up analysis had been completed,
Gerald Quin pushed away his charts with an exhausted sigh.

'The numbers work,' he said. 'We need to find three
billion dollars.'

There was an awed hush as the deal team tried to get their
heads round that amount of money.

'Great,' Damian Hart said, with perfect deadpan
humour. 'Now for the good part.'

413


Chapter Thirty-Six


It wasn't quite that simple.

Maughan Macaskill, the lawyers and the two chief
executives finally had some numbers worked out and an
idea of who might want to come in with them. They stir
had to hammer out a million little variables - tax problems,
ownership regulations, SECC disclosures - and they also

' needed a creative plan that would sell Wall Street on the idea
that Mansion House couldn't be trusted. Only Musica
management could run Musica. Only the present board
could run American Magazines.

'We have to split the team,' Gowers said wearily at half
eleven that night. 'There's just no other way to get this done
in time.'

Oberman nodded. 'Rowena, you and Michael should put
some kind of document together for Musica. I don't know
who American want... ' "

'Topaz Rossi,' Gowers said instantly. 'Harvey Smith.
Damian should work with us.'

'Am I needed?' Smith asked, annoyed. He wanted to be in
the real action. 'LA can send up all the data through here by
fax and I know some guys at RJR Nabisco we should pitch
Natural Foods to.'

'Topaz?' Gowers asked.

'Fine,' she shrugged, seeing her colleagues' eyes upon
her. Why don't you just say it? No way is she professional enough
to work with Rowena Gordon? 'It's no problem,' Topaz
added, her face set in a mask of perfect indifference.

Rowena, is that OK for you?' Oberman asked his
president. 'We really only have a few days on this.'

414


'Absolutely,' Rowena confirmed.

Oh, bloody marvellous. Michael Krebs and Topaz Rossi. Just
the two people I really want to be close to at the moment.

'So that's settled,' Eli Leber said, his eyes sweeping the
room cautiously. Rossi and Gordon both looked as uptight
as Tipper Gore at a strippers' conference, Gowers and
Oberman were watching them with slightly nervous expressions,
and the only person that seemed totally at his ease was Michael Krebs.

'That's settled,' Krebs agreed, smiling.


Musica Towers was electric with rumours.

Rowena Gordon could feel it in the air every day when
she walked through the doors, striding through the marble
lobby where she'd been served her termination notice,
walking up the stairs to a marketing meeting, dropping in
on a sales presentation.., as soon as she appeared, staff
ceased talking, studied their shoes or picked up the nearest
phone.

Not that it was easy to tell. With Roxana's Race Game crashing to the Billboard Hot Too at number one and the next
Black Ice album due in a week, the entire building was
frying ice in the rush. Sam Neil had been running the place
for the year of her exile and he was in total control of the
organized madness; suppliers were getting served;
campaigns were being run, tours were being supported- so
what if the new C. O. O. wasn't in her office all the time?
What was there to talk about?

Plenty, Rowena thought furiously. Evidently.

'Sam, what's going On?' she demanded. 'I can't walk in on
a meeting without feeling like the" eleph.ant woman. I'm the
class freak here. What's the score?'

Neil loosened his collar, sweating slightly, and looked his
boss over with a wary eye. Rowena Gordon mad would
give a charging rhino pause, even without those short black
suits she'd taken-to wearing - little Richard Tyler skirts in
snug wool, DKNY fitted tops, her long blonde hair swept
back in a schoolgirl's ponytail. That was Rowena's idea of

dressing down. It was Sam's idea of a heart attack.

'Nothing's going on,' her division president replied,
cautiously. 'Maybe some people are a little curious about
you, that's all.'

Rowena fixed him with a steely glare.

'OK, OK', he added hastily, 'I guess - uh- it's just that
you haven't actually been around much since you took

over, and, uh, the staffare wondering why not.'

'Go on,' she said.

Sam Neil felt himself start to sweat uncomfortably. Hell,
he'd taken great trouble not to show even a flicker of
curiosity. If the new head of the company didn't want to
show up in the office, his not to reason why. But he
suddenly had the sense that he was on very thin ground
indeed.

'I guess they're wondering what you and Josh and Krebs
are working on,' he finished lamely.

Rowena nodded. 'I see,' she said. 'What you're trying to
tell me, Sam, is that the whole building wants to know if
we're off devising some kind of secret buyout defence
against Mansion Industries?'


	'Yeah,'said Neil, squirming slightly.

'Is the whole company talking about this, Sam?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know, Rowena, I mean, I don't
have that much contact with the junior staff... OK, all
right, I suppose they are.'

Rowena pushed a wisp of blonde hair away from her
forehead, feeling the tension crunch round her skull like a
vice. She simply couldn't let this happen. If the staffin the
New York office started to gossip about it, it was only a
matter of time before her absence leaked to the trades. And
if the same thing was going on over at American Magazines,
it would take just one business reporter to put two and two
together, and weeks of patient work would be blown sky
high.

The whole deal depended on secrecy.

She had to get back to her office, and she had to come up
with the creative plan.


416

There was only one thing for it...

'Well, they can lay that one to rest,' she said firmly. 'Our
legal defences are in place, you know that. I'll be back in the
building from today . . . we just had some problems to do
with the new Atomic Mass record, and you know Barbara
and Krebs will only deal with Josh and myself on stufflike
that.'

'Do you want me to tell people that?' Sam Neil asked,
surprised. Atomic Mass were the Holy Grail around Musica
Records. Even to imagine a problem with them was
blasphemy.

'Sure,' his president said, expansively. 'We have no
secrets at Musica Records.'

'OK,' Sam said, leaving her office with some relief.

Rowena Gordon watched him go. Then she picked up
her phone and dialled Topaz Rossi's private line.

'Topaz, we have another problem,' she said.


American Magazines vasjust as busy and the rumours were
just as wild. In fact they were worse. After all, investigation
and exposure was what everybody in the building did for a
living.

Topaz found that out the first day she came back to work.
Sauntering into the Impact offices and feeling twelve pairs of
eyes crawling over the nape of her neck. Dropping in on Girlfriend to find herself as out of place as a high-school
teacher at a slumber party.

'It's what I'd expect, 'Joe told her when she rang up to
complain. 'At least over at Musica only the chairman and
the president took off. You guys had half the board playing
hookey. Of course they're talking:'

'But we can't let everybody gossip aout this! It'll leak!'
Topaz protested.

'Which is why you're all back in the office, honey,' Joe
pointed out.

'I can't stay in the office! When am I gonria work on the
creative plan? I have to present Rowena Gordon with
something in the next few days!'


417

'I don't know,' Goldstein said as calmly as he could.Jesus
Christ, she's eight months pregnant! 'Just try not to stress
yourself out, sweetheart. iF i were you I'd talk to Rowena. It
would be dangerous to be away from the office now.'

'OK, OK,' his wife soothed him. Try not to stress myself
out? That's real funny.

'Topaz, Rowena Gordon is on the line,' her assistant said.
'Joe, I have to go,' she told him. 'I'll call you later.'
Christ Almighty, Topaz thought, glancing down at the
frantic rush of lunchtime traffic pouring along Seventh
Avenue, sixty storeys below her. Compared with her own
life, it seemed as calm as a monastic retreat. She hoped that
bitch Rowena Gordon was taking at least a little of the same
heat.

'This is me,' she snapped.

'Topaz, we have another problem,' Rowena said coldly,
trying to hide her panic. 'I don't think I can get away from
my building. The staffhere are beginning to talk.'

The either,' her rival replied. 'And we just can't risk it
getting out.'

'Nobody can do a creative plan for Musica Records but
me,' Rowena said flatly. It wasn't a boast, it was a statement
of fact. She knew that it was her ideas about the kind of acts
they should go for, her take on marketing and distribution,
and her plans for buying smaller labels that made Josh
Oberman give her her job back in the first place.

'Yeah. I'm sure that's true,' Topaz said, forgetting to be
icy. 'I feel the same way about American. You know? Joe
thinks I should delegate this plan, but I just can't do it - it's

not about the nuts and bolts of the business, it's about '
'Vision?' Rowena suggested.
'Exactly,' the other woman said.

'So what do we do?' Rowena asked. 'We have to get this
done - '

' - and we can't do it in our offices because we have to go

back in to all the meetings '

There was a pause.

'So I guess we're gonna have to work together at nights


4i8

and over the weekend,' Rowena said eventually. 'We could
do it separately, but then how would we check with each

other over wording, the generallines of the document... '
'Come round at nine,' Topaz said shortly.

So it was the only way. Well, she had to do it. But she
didn't have to like it.

'And Michael Krebs?' Rowena forced herself to ask.

'If your Mr Oberman thinks you need him, bring him
along too,' Topaz replied.

There was another moment's awkward silence, and then
both women hung up, without further pleasantries.


Michael Krebs drove his black Ferrari Testarossa up to the
Musica Towers executive car park and was instantly waved
in by the guard. It was an early summer evening and Krebs
was enjoying everything about it. The way the golden light
fell over the trees and the sidewalks. The way the Tom Petty
CD sounded in his top-of-the-range in-car system. The

way Rowena Gordon had sounded to him on the phone.
'Michael? It's Rowena.'

'I know who it is,' Krebs had said dryly.

'There's been a change of plan,' she went on nervously,
obviously trying to get off the phone as soon as she could.
'We have to meet tonight, not this afternoon. Can you be at
Beekman Place at nine?'

'I don't know. What's in it for me?'

'Michael, for Christ's sake!'

'I have some ideas I want.to discuss with you,' Krebs said,
oblivious. 'If we have to be there at nine, I'll pick you up at eight.'

'OK,' Rowena said, tensely.

Krebs smiled. He knew every into'nation of Rowena
Gordon's voice, knew it like his own. So she'd wanted to
object, but she couldn't - couldn't admit that she didn't
want to be alone with him.

She wants to be all business, but she's as scared as hell.

He was looking forward to this.
t

49


Rowena had just sent her assistant home when Michael
arrived.

She'd spent the last two hours trying to reach John

Metcalfin LA and getting the brush-offfrom his assistant.
'The president's in a meeting, ma'am.'
'Yes, ma'am, I know who you are.'

'Yes, ma'am, I gave him all your messages.'

'Uh, he went straight into a new meeting, Ms Gordon.

Yes, ma'am, I know, but we're extremely busy... '

'Well, thanks for your help,' Rowena said as Michael
walked in, replacing the receiver with a bang.

Krebs took in her lean, elegant silhouette against the
windows, the last light of day catching her blonde hair so it
shimmered and gleamed, her tight black outfit hugging
every slender curve and her long legs seeming tO stretch
down for ever in sheer black pantyhose.

He felt an instant twitch of lust. 'Who were you calling?'
'Oh, nobody special,' she said defensively.
'Was that your fiance?'

'No,' said Rowena, blushing. She grew angrier with John. Why did he have to be so childish about her staying in
llew York for a few weeks? Now she was embarrassed in
front of Michael Krebs. The last guy in the world she
wanted to know about her relationship problems.

'Well,! guess that is nobody special,' Krebs commented
shrewdly, giving her an infuriatingly knowing grin.

'Do you want to work this through here, or should we go

over to Mirror, Mirror?' Rowena asked, determinedly
ignoring him.

'Nether. I've booked us a table at LeCirque,' he told her,

'and don't look like that, Rowena, if we're gonna work all
night I have to eat first.'

Rowena glanced at him, wanting to object but not daring

to. If it was anybody else, of course they'd need dinner
before working all night . . .

But it wasn't anybody else. It was Michael Krebs.

'Are you coming, or what?' he demanded, turning to go.

His expression was one of complete indifference.


420

Pull yourself together, Rowena, she told herself severely,
and grabbed her sheaf of notes and contracts.

Tm right behind you,' she said.


They drove uptown through the twilight, talking business,
watching each other. Rowena leant back against the supple
leather of her seat and tried to listen to what Krebs was
suggesting: buying a couple of hardcore labels, trimming
the European roster, expanding the licensing division. She
needed to concentrate. This stuff was important. And yet
she just couldn't stop watching the way his mouth moved
when he spoke, the way his large hands gripped the wheel,
the sexy grey hair at the side of his head. She didn't want
him to come on to her, but she was somehow resentful that
he was being so goddamn professional . . . why didn't he
push her like he used to? Has he given up on me? Rowena
wondered, instantly ashamed to find herself dismayed at the
thought, o

Krebs stared at the traffic ahead of him, seeing Rowena
out of the corner of his eye, talking on autopilot. This deal
was Josh and Rowena's future, and he'd done a lot of work
on it; besides, personally, professionally, it would be
catastrophic for him to have Mansion House take Musica
over. Krebs had his own proposals off by heart, which
meant he could reel them off to Rowena without thinking.
Leaving his mind free to consider those schoolgirl pantyhose.
The clinging cut of her dress. The way her slim little
body curled round in her seat. Jesus, but the way she moved
drove him crazy. He remembered the tiny catlike curl she'd
done on that studio chair in London, the night they'd first
had sex.

I want "you, I want you, Rowena thought fiercely.

She's so far under my skin, Krebs thought, heady with a
sudden urge to just pull over and reach for her. He fought
back the impulse and kept talking, but he was enraged.
Rowena Gordon was his! She had always been his! Who was
this little kid John Metcalf? Some jerk-off Angeleno who
knew absolutely nothing about music, absolutely nothing


42I

about what fired Rowena's passions...

At the elegant restaurant on East 65th they were ush

to a secluded table, and Michael ordered champagne.

'Le Cirque is my favourite, these days,' Rowena said to I
him, searching for some safe ground for small talk. In the
cool shadows and soft lights she felt Krebs's presence as a
real threat. He'd put on a dark jacket and tie to eat here

something he never wore; it amplified his
	air

power. His charcoal eyes, fringed with those

lashes, looked into hers with an easygoing interest that

maddened her.

She wanted him to leave her alone.

She wanted him to forget her.

She wanted him to just be her friend.

Yeah, right.

'Its got the best diet menu in Manhattan,' she added hastily, suddenly aware that she'd been staring at him. Tm
past thirty. I have to watch my weight.'

'Don't be ridiculous. You're perfect as you are,' Michael

said, watching her drop her gaze. 'And what is this past

thirty bullshit? You're just a child, Gordon.'

Rowena laughed, and the long sweep of her hair

'the candlelight. He felt his left hand clench under the:

tablecloth.

TII always be a child to you, Michael.'

'You're a lot of things to me,' he said softly, 'but a child

isn't one of them.'

He stared at her, and Rowena sensed the deep,

well of heat starting to pulse in her groin. Under the taut
fabric of her sweater, quite noticeably her nipples tightened,
swelling with blood. Lust strong enough to match his own '
started to trawl across her skin, digging little teasing hooks '
of pleasure into her groin. She felt a wave of panic, aware
that her desire for him was written in bright letters across
her face.

Tm going to have you again,' Krebs said quietly, never
taking his eyes from her. 'It's what you want and it's what I
want. '


422

'No it's not,' Rowena answered sharply, reaching blindly
for her wine glass. Michael lunged across the table and
caught her hand in his, gripping it, his fingers pushing
against the soft flesh at the base of the thumb.

His touch was like flicking on a switch. Rowena's
stomach dissolved in longing and she flooded with wetness.
Involuntarily she gave a little shudder of need, her whole

body shaking on the chair.

'Isn't it?' Krebs insisted.

'Are you ready to order?' enquired a waiter politely.

Krebs felt the moment shatter and glared at the poor man
with a look that could have melted steel.

'Thank you, yes. I'd like the monkfish with sorrel leaves,'.
Rowena said hastily, pressing her hot palm against the
glittering coolness of her engagement ring.

She discussed contracts briskly for the entire rest of the

meal.


They drew up at Beekman Place at nine exactly. Topaz
Rossi let them in, elegant in an empire-waisted dress of dark
blue velvet that cut offjust below the knee, flowing over her
round stomach and contrasting beautifully with her red
curls, shiny and lustrous from her pregnancy.

'You look terrific,' Rowena told her, forgetting her
reserve of that morning. 'That dress really picks out your

eyes.'

'You think so? I hate it,' Topaz said. 'I hate everything in
my wardrobe at the moment though. I can't find one thing
that will make me look less fat.'

'Oh, you don't look fat, you look pregnant,' Rowena
protested. 'Look at your arms ind legs, Topaz. Look at
your chin.'

'Hello, Michael, 'Joe Goldstein said, appearing behind his
wife. He put a protective hand on her shoulder and added
somewhat coldly, 'Hi, Rowena.'

'Hey, Goldstein,' Krebs answered, feeling the renewed
chill settle between the two women. Not that he would ever
understand their relationship; he still remembered the


423

unusual venom that had crept into Rowena's voice when
she talked about Topaz; he could hardly forget all the barbs
this cute-looking redhead had thrown at them, the sniping
at Atomic Mass when they were just starting out, the way
she'd blown out the Madison Square Gardens launch of Heat Street, the way she'd taken Velocity from under
Rowena's nose, and the final damning Westside cover story
that finished Rowena Gordon's meteoric career off in one.
fell swoop. And on their side? Joe Hunter publicly embarrassing
Rossi on Oprah, closing White Light down with a
few phonecalls, and the inexorable rise of Rowena and her
band, right up until that final blow.

There has to be more to it than that, Krebs thought,
watching Topaz Rossi's back as she led them through to the
office. I know they had a history.., it's like they know

' each other backwards. Half of the time they would act like
sisters, fixing each other's coffee without asking how they
took it, finishing off each other's sentences, complaining
about the traffic. Then they would catch themselves doing
it, and suddenly, instantly, snap back into the two bitter
rivals who'd been forced to do business together.

,But she keeps glancing over at Goldstein, keeps looking
around the house, Michael thought, interested. It's like
she's incredibly curious but doesn't want to show it... and
Topaz, too, that girl's always checking me out, always
striking up conversations with Oberman...

Of course, over the last few weeks there'd been a crowd
of people around them. Now they were practically on their

own.

Krebs grinned as he pulled the Atomic Mass contract out
of his briefcase. This was going to be hard work, but it
might be fun to watch.


Topaz shook her head, trying to clear the fumes of
exhaustion and fatigue. It was ten to three inthe morning,
and they were still at work. Despairing of her stubbornness,
Joe had long since turned in - he liked to be at NBC before
seven - and Michael Krebs, who'd been up until five the


424

night before mixing the latest Black Ice album, had passed
out on the sofa.

'Do you want to call it a night?' Rowena asked, seeing her
check her watch.

Topaz took another gulp of her industrial-strength coffee
and shook her head. 'If we can work through this joint
statement about artistic commitment we'll be finished. I'd
rather do it that way, I gotta say. I don't want to have to go
back to it.'

Rowena nodded. 'We did pretty well. Check this out,'
and she reached down to Topaz's laser printer and pulled off
thirty sheets of paper. 'Creative planning, sell-offs, the
human resource factor- '

'Translation: all my writers and all your bands will be out
the door in a heartbeat,' Topaz butted in, grinning.

'Exactly. Plus, detailed expansion plans, distribution
details, licensing deals-'

'Translation: we know how to run these babies and
Connor Miles knows jack,' added Topaz.

'Plus five-year plans for the core businesses -'
'Translation: if you sell this stock you're as dumb as Clan
fucking Quayle,' said Topaz elegantly. 'Hey, Rowena, let's
just be straight with this statement. Type this up - The
boards of American Magazines and Musica Records-'

'Musica Records and American Magazines,' said Rowena
loudly.

'- state that they have complete commitment to all their
artistic principles, as long.as they're making money-'

'- and if they stop making money, we'll drop them right
away -'

'- and ifConnor Miles buys us-out we're walking -'

'- and everybody's coming with us

'- and your shares will be worth one-tenth of what you
paid for them -'

'so don't fuck with us!' Rowena finished triumphantly.
The two women collapsed in a fit of laughter, clutching
each other for support, then shushing each other as Michael
Krebs turned fitfully on the sofa.

42:5


'Oh, I'm sorry,' Topaz whispered. 'I shouldn't wake
Michael. He was really cool on all that licensing stuff.'

'Yeah,' Rowena agreed, turning her head to look at the
producer. Topaz watched her gazing at him, her face
suddenly softened and tender.

'What's the deal? You love him?' she asked.
Rowenajumped out of her skin. 'Of course not,' she said
instantly. Even in the dull flickering glow of the Mac, the
only light in the room, Topaz could see her old rival
blushing scarlet. 'Whatever gave you that idea?'

'Whatever gave you that idea?" mimicked Topaz quietly.
'Oh please. How long have I known you?'

There was a pause, as the rhetorical question brought it all
flooding back.

'A long time,' Rowena replied slowly.

There was another pause. Both women felt their heartbeats
speed up a little. Over the course of the deal, and
especially tonight, they'd been able to work together
because they had to. Because there was no other way.
Because they were career girls with their careers at stake.

And the unspoken, unwritten, unbreakable rule was: Say
nathing. Confront nothing. Resolve nothing.

A temporary truce. No more than that.

And now . . .

Topaz Rossi looked at Rowena Gordon.

'Why did you do it?' she asked softly. 'We were so close.'

Rowena felt as though a fist of mixed emotions was
closing around her heart.

'I was young, and dumb, and selfish,' she said eventually.
'I wanted him and he was with you. You were so . . . sexy
and outrageous, and I was a virgin.., it was just another
guy rejecting me, I suppose.'

Imperceptibly, Topaz leant forward on her seat.

'And then I started to resent you, because you had him,'
Rowena went on, unable to look the other woman in the
fac, 'and the more I was jealous of you the guiltier I felt, and
I kept on wanting him but in reality, I think it was only
because you had him.'


426

'And you were with him alone such a lot,' Topaz said,
with the beginnings of understanding.

Rowena nodded. 'So I tried to justify it to myself, when
there "was no justification... I started thinking all these
snobby thoughts.., it was like all the establishment values
I'd been hurt by myself I used against you. And I was
ashamed of myself, so I focused all that on you. And then
you blew me out for the Union Presidency, so I could kid
myself that it was all your fault . . . you'd pushed me at
him . . . and I hated you, because I just couldn't admit that what I'd actually done was trample all over the first person
in the world who had ever cared about me for who I was. I
am so, so sorry, Topaz,' Rowena finished weakly. 'I just
hope you can forgive me.'

Topaz stared at her for a long moment. Then she broke
into a slow smile.

'You know, if you'd said that before it would have saved
us both .lot of trouble. All you English guys are such
emotional cripples.'

'I'm not English. I'm Scottish,' said Rowena with
dignity.

'Same difference.'

'Only a dumb-ass Yank would say something like that.'
They grinned at each other.

'Come on, Goldilocks. Let's put this thing to bed,' Topaz
said, 'and you can tell me all about Daddy Bear over there
while we're at it.'

Chapter Thirty-Seven


The main conference chamber of Maughan Macaskill was
packed out. Quotron screens had been installed along the
length of the walnut table, and there were so many phones
and fax machines positioned round the room that it looked
like the Starship Enterprise. Nick Edward had also ordered
up a couple of wide-screen TVs, so they could watch
reactions to this deal as it broke.

The place was thronging with more millionaires than a
Hamptons country club: investment bankers, debt financiers,
lawyers, industrialists from eight of America and
Canada's biggest conglomerates, and representatives from
six banks. Twelve storeys below them, C NN reporters and Journal photographers were already jockeying for place on
t[ae sidewalk. There was a general sense of disbelief- Barbarians at the Gate Mark II and everyone had missed it!
How in God's name was this bid put together without
anybody finding out about it?

'Where the hell is Topaz Rossi? All hell's breaking loose
up here and I can't find my fucking director!' Matthew
Gowers fumed to Josh Oberman. 'Her assistant's not at her
desk, Harvey hasn't seen her since lunch.., she hasn't left
any message with my secretary.'

'Rowena had a meeting with her at three,' the Musica
chairman told him. 'I called her in the car on the way over.
They must have left the building together for some reason,
because Gordon's not answering her mobile phone.
Tammy Limmon told me she cancelled Hans Bauer to
go see Michael Krebs, then went straight over to
American... '

'Yeah, but it's four thirty. They should be here! Where's
Rossi's goddamn secretary?' Gowers demanded.

Oberman snorted. The bid was announced now. If
Gordon was dumb enough to miss this party, that was her
problem. 'They've probably got some excuse,' he said.

Matt Gowers looked out of the window at the crowd of
business journos below him. He was annoyed; he'd been
looking forward to a triumphant photoshoot of himself and
Topaz as his nominated successor. Surely it wasn't asking
too much for just a little glamour at the end of his executive
career?

'Well, it better be a good one,' he said darkly.


'Hurry,' urged Rowena. 'For Christ's sake! Is this the best
we can do?'

'I can't go any faster without breaking the law, ma'am,'
the chauffeur said imperturbably.

'Then baeak the fucking law!' she snapped. 'Or do you feel
like becoming an instant midwife?'

The guy blenched visibly and pressed his foot to the floor.

'It hurts,' Topaz whimpered, her right hand clutching
Rowena's in a pincer-like grip. 'Ohhhh... '

Her face twisted with pain as another violent contraction
shuddered through her. Rowena watched it in an agony of
sympathy. She estimated they were about five minutes
apart now.

'You're doing great,' she said, as calmly as she could.
'Hang in there. We'll be at Mt Sinai real soon.'

A quick, pained grin Came over Topaz's sweating face.
'"Real soon"? You're becoming an American, Rowena.'

'Am I hell,' she retorted, smilirig at the woman in her lap.
'Are so.'
'Am not.'

'Are so. Jesus!Jesust. Aaaht.'

'It's OK, Topaz. We're nearly there. They have some of
the best anaesthetists in the city,' Rowena said, stroking her
hair. 'Try and breathe. Don't they teach you to breathe
specially, or something?'


429

'It's bullshit,' Topaz said through gritted teeth.

'It is?' Rowena asked, trying to take her mind offthe pain. Keep her talking, just keep it going...

'Probably. I skipped most of the classes,' Topaz admitted.
'You always did,' Rowena reminded her.

Topaz managed a grimace. 'Like you were such a dutiful
student.'

Rowena kept going as Topaz's grip tightened in anguish
round her fist. 'Lectures weren't important. The Union was

important,' she said. 'I had my priorities right.'

'Oh! Santa Maria! Aaah, God.'

'It's OK, sweetheart. It's OK,' Rowena said, watching

her stomach convulse with yet another contraction.

God in heaven, she's gonna give birth on the back seat of this car! 'Run every fucking light! Just get us there!' she yelled at

the driver.

'Rowena!' Topaz gasped. 'I'm having twins! I'm having
two babies!'

'I know, honey,' Rowena said, holding her as tight as she
could. 'I know.'


Michael Krebs heard the news on his car stereo.

'The Wall Street shock of the hour has to be the surprise
hostile bid for the South African conglomerate Mansion
Industries, owned by the notorious raider Connor Miles,'
the DJ said. 'The bid, announced at four dollars thirty per
ordinary share, is the work of a complex consortium of
investment banks and firms operating in fields where
Mansion has interests. It sets a total value of five billion
dollars on the deal. So far, Mr Miles himself has refused to
comment, but his board has convened an emergency
meeting in Manhattan to consider the offer. In a strange
twist to the sage, the two largest players in the consortium
appear to be American Magazines and Musica Records,
both companies recently thought to be targets of Mansion's
drive into the media industry. If this is the case, we could be
looking at the biggest Pac-man defence in American
financial history.'


430

Without a word Krebs spun the wheel round, took a left,
and headed downtown to Maughan Macaskill.

As with every other big moment in his career for the last
nine years, he wanted to be with Rowena when this came
through.


Backstage at the Globen Arena in Stockholm, Sweden, the
Atomic Mass production office was hyping up for the
show; Nell George, the tour accountant, was sitting down
with the gate receipts, Jack Halpern, the stage manager, was
yelling at a bunch of local crew guys who weren't getting
the gear up quick enough, and Will Macleod was striding
around looking for his boss. Eventually he found her at the
main entrance to the venue, negotiating some extra Scandinavian
dates with a desperate promoter.

'Four dollars and thirty cents,' Macleod said.

'l was talking,' the promoter said, pissed-off that some
great hulkhag ape was interrupting his urgent pleas to be
allowed to schedule even one more gig in the summer
break.

'Oh aye?' Macleod replied, with a glare of such ferocity
that the promoter physically shrank away from him. 'Well,
if we want to play a fokkin' giant golfball in July we'll let you
know. '

'Will,' reproved Barbara halflaeartedly, smoothing
down her Norma Kamali pantsuit in an attempt not to
laugh. The spherical dome of the Globen did look kind
of like a golfball... Lord, look at Dolph Lystrom's
face.

'Four dollars thirty, Barbara,' Macleod said again. 'Josh
Obermanjust rang the productiort office and said to tell you
right away.'

She looked at him blankly.

'The price. Four dollars thirty,' he repeated. 'He said
you'd know what he meant-'

'My God! They've actually done it!' the manager
exclaimed. 'Didn't Rowena Gordon call?'

'Done what?' Macleod asked.


43

'Five-billion-dollar deal - I have to get to a phone,'
Barbara said, looking about her wildly. Had they tendered
yet? 'We have millions riding on this.'

'July eighteenth?' offered the promoter, hopefully.


'I don't care if it's AI Pacino. I'm not taking any calls,
understand?' John Metcalf barked at his secretary. 'I'm in a
meeting and I cannot be disturbed. The only person I want to
speak to is my fiancee.'

'Yes, sir,' she said hastily, closing the door behind her.
The president of Metropolis Studios stared out of his
window at the polished Century City offices gleaming in
the LA sun. He was almost lightheaded with anger.

No wonder she had to have those three weeks . . . Mansion
Industries! Five billion dollars! An alliance with American
Magazines!

The biggest deal this decade and she tells me nothing!

He recalled with perfect clarity every time he'd sworn at
her that there was nothing she could do to save Musica.
That resisting Connor Miles was a waste of time.

She must have been laughing her head off. Nothing she could

d? They've only blown the guy off the face of the planet . . .

If this buyout came off, John realized with an unpleasant
jolt, his wife would be more powerful than he was.

All along he'd encouraged her, been a cheerleader for her,
and been happy to have a beautiful woman on his arm who
was a success in her own right. But somehow that equation
had always included the given fact that he, John Peter
Metcalf III, the youngest-ever head of a major studio,
would be the really important half of the couple.

What am I gonna be? Trophy husband to a female Rupert
Murdoch?

He couldn't even get in contact with her. Rowena's
assistant had no idea where she was. Josh Oberman could
tell him nothing. And her mobile and car phones were both
switched off.

Meanwhile, a hundred calls an hour were coming
through to his office from West Coast players who all


432

assumed he knew what the score was.

We're gonna have to talk, Metcalf thought grimly. We
are really gonna have to talk...


'Any response?' Gowers asked Gerald Quin. The activity
level in the dealing room seemed to have gone up several
notches; traders were screaming into the phones, the fax
machines were spewing paper faster than receipts from a
supermarket till, and the Quotron screens were going
crazy.

'Very little. Miles is on his way to JFK in his private jet,'
the young analyst told him. 'He's saying that he wants time
to counter. '

'Does that make a difference?'

'The longer he has to stall, the worse it is for us,' Nick
Edward replied.

'We should turn the heat up,' interjected a gravelly voice.
Joshua Oberman had wandered over from the end of the
room, frustrated at not being able to reach Rowena Gordon.
She wasn't answering in her apartment, either. 'We know this is a generous price for Mansion. It's only worth it to us because everyone in the buying group has space for a piece
of them.'

'True,' Eli Leber agreed. 'There's no way any bank
would support Miles bidding at that price.'

'So what do you suggest?' Quin enquired, humouring the
old goat.

'I suggest we call Mansion and tell their board that if we
don't have signatures by close of business today, the price
becomes four twenty-five dollars. And four twenty at close
Monday,.' Oberman snapped.

'We can't do that,' Gowers said uncertainly.

'Why not?'Josh Oberman demanded.

Gerry Quin glanced at his boss, feeling the adrenalin
crackle around them.

'Why not indeed?' Edward said. 'Gentlemen, let's apply a
little pressure.'

433


Rowena and the terrified driver supported Topaz through
the front doors of Mt Sinai, where she was immediately
lifted on to a stretcher and rushed off to the maternity ward.

'Don't leave me!' Topaz choked, clutching Rowena's arm

as she ran alongside her.

'I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying right here,' she
promised, turning to the orderly. 'This is Topaz Rossi. She
was planning to have her babies here.., it's twins . . . her

contractions are about five minutes apart, I think.'
'Who's the husband?' somebody asked.
'Joe-' Topaz moaned.

'Joe Goldstein at NBC,' Rowena said. 'I asked her office

to call him but I don't know ifhe's here... '

'We'll get in touch,' the nurse said.

'I don't want Rowena to go!' Topaz gasped as they turned

into the private maternity wing.

'Can you get her something for the pain?' Rowena asked.

'What the fuck are you crying for? You're not giving
birth,' Topaz said gruffly.

'Try and relax,' the nurse soothed them. 'Everything's
gonna be just fine.'


'Want a burger?' Josh Oberman offered Michael Krebs.
'Pizza, Bud, Chinese takeout?'

'No, thanks,' Krebs said, distracted. He looked around

him at the chaotic scene in the meeting room. 'What the hell

is this?'

'A consortium that's just issued an ultimatum,' Nick
Edward told him. 'Welcome to wheeler-dealing.'

'And I thought the record business was full of slobs,'
Michael commented. 'Did you get the number of the bus
that drove through here?'

'What's the press like outside?' Matt Gowers asked.

'It's a total madhouse,' Krebs replied, grinning. 'Last

time I got that much attention I was coming out of a party

with Joe Hunter and Cindy Crawford.'

'Where the hell is Topaz Rossi? seethed the American

	.,

Magazines chairman.


434

'Where's Rowena?' Michael asked Josh.

'That's the sixty-four-dollar question,' Oberman said.


Joe Goldstein's heart had never beaten faster. Not when he
was a quarterback in school. Not when he was up for his
first major job interview. Not even when he'd lost his
virginity.

We're having twins! I'm gonna be a father! My god, what if
she's already there . . .

'I'm having twins,' he said breathlessly to the receptionist.
The cab had got stuck in traffic so Goldstein had
jumped out and run the last six blocks.

'You are?' he replied, suppressing the laugh. 'Yes, sir.
What's your partner's name?'

'Rossi. Topaz Rossi, my wife - I'm Joe Goldstein,' he
said.

'Yes, Mr Goldstein, we've been expecting you,' a nurse
told him, xniling. 'If you'd just like to follow me.'


'Graham Hackston is on the phone!' somebody yelled.

Instant silence in the dealing room. Hackston was the
chairman of the board of Mansion Industries.

An assistant held out the phone towards Matt Gowers
and Joshua Oberman, uncertainly.

'Age before beauty,' Oberman said to Matt, grabbing it.
He listened to the voice at the other end for a few seconds.
'In that case, our lawyera will be in touch,' he said calmly.
'Thank you, Graham.'

He hung up and turned to the crowd of businessmen,
holding their collective breath like kids on Christmas Eve.

'We nailed the sonofabitch!' he exclaimed.


Joe burst through the door of his wife's delivery room and
stopped dead in his tracks.

Topaz was sitting propped up in bed, two minute bundles
cradled against each breast, her face transformed with such a
look of love that he thought he'd never seen her so beautiful.

She lifted her head as he entered the room. 'We've got a.


435

son and a daughter,' she said.

'I love you, Topaz,' said Joe, looking at his family, his
eyes filling with tears.


Outside in the corridor, Rowena Gordon found a payphone
and rang Josh Oberman on his mobile.

'Josh? Are you at some kind of party?' she asked, hearing
wild shrieks in the background.

'Gordon? Is that you?' her chairman demanded. 'Where
the fuck have you been all day? Everyone's been trying to
get hold of you for ever! I'm at Maughan Macaskill with the
whole goddamn team!'

'What? Have we announced a bid?'

'Yes, we announced a bid! We've also given them an

ultimatum, forced them to accept, exchanged signatures
' and BOUGHT THE COMPANY' Oberman half

screamed. 'And you missed it!'

She glanced back down towards the delivery room,
where Jacob and Rowena Goldstein were being held by
their father for the first time.

'No,' she said. 'No, I didn't.'

436


Epilogue


Rowena and Topaz became close friends.

Matthew Gowers resigned from the chairmanship of
American Magazines four months later and named Topaz
Rossi his successor, making her one of the most powerful
women in journalism. Topaz and Joe continued to adore
their children, fight about everything and be madly in love.

The engagement between John Metcalf and Rowena
Gordon was cancelled.

Barbara-Lincoln divorced Jake Barber, then remarried
him. The second time around they were very happy.

Atomic Mass's third album, Questions, sold sixteen
million copies worldwide.

Joshua Oberman was rushed to hospital in New York a
few days after the takeover of Mansion Industries with a
heart attack, which he survived. He had been defying
doctors' orders to retire for several months, refusing
to leave Musica when it was under threat. This time he
quit, insisting on signing all his stock over to Rowena
Gordon.

'Don't be stupid, Oberman. This is worth millions,'
Rowena said, protesting.

'I've got millions. Do what I tell .you,' he old man
snapped.

	'So give it to your family.'

		'I

.
			am,' Oberman said gruffly.

He came round to Rowena's apartment every Monday
for dinner, and rang her every Friday to tell her how she was
screwing up.

	Rowena Gordon became the first woman in history to be'

437


Chief Executive of a major record label. She stopped seeing
Michael Krebs.

'I want marriage and a family,' she said. 'I want us to be

with each other the way Joe and Topaz are.'

'You know how I feel about that,' Krebs said. 'I care
about you, but I just can't do it.'

Rowena nodded. 'I know,' she said. She reached out and
stroked his cheek, softly. 'I know. And I'm grateful to you
for everything. We'll always be friends.'

'What is this? Goodbye again?' Michael asked, his eyes
narrowing. 'You can't be serious. What the hell's changed?'

She shrugged, her eyes bright with tears. 'I saw Joe and
Topaz,' she said. 'I'm sorry, Michael. I wish I could separate

everything, but I can't. I wish I didn't love you, but I do.'

'I love Debbie,' Krebs said angrily.

'So be with her,' Rowena said. 'I don't want this life
anymore.


Rowena saw Michael often, both socially and over Atomic
Mass. She amazed both him and herselfby sticking to it this
time.

, People live without love.

She loved her job, she saw a lot of her friends, and she was
happy enough.


It was three years later that Michael Krebs turned up at her

door.

'Notice anything different?' he asked.

Rowena looked him over. 'Since last Tuesday? I don't

think so. New runmng shoes?

Krebs held up both his hands.

For a second, she nearly didn't register.

'Where's your wedding ring?' Rowena asked, feeling her

heart stop beating.

'I asked Debbie for a divorce,' Krebs said.

'Why?' asked Rowena, numbly.

'Because I'm in love with you,' Michael said. 'Because I
haven't been able to get you out of my head. And because

438


Josh Oberman rang me last week and told me that I'd
always loved you and that I was the only person who
couldn't see it. He said one day you would just leave, and I'd
never see you again, and I thought about it, and it would
break my heart.'

'It would?' Rowena repeated, feeling almost faint with
joy.

'Yes, it would,' Krebs said dryly, producing a diamond
ring. 'So what are you doing for the rest of your life?'


They called their first son Joshua.

439