The Edge Read online

  Adam paused. ‘Sure, yes, I—’

  ‘Falconz are bigger than any of us realized,’ Roger said. He paused, raising his chin grandly. ‘They’re the Coldplay of EDM.’

  Adam, who’d used the chance of this latest interruption to take a long pull on his juice, coughed, his eyes watering.

  ‘So we’re gonna need a little more bandwidth, on the new album. We wouldn’t be being fair to ourselves if we didn’t look at every option,’ Roger continued. ‘To get to where we want to be, we’re gonna need experience that none of us have – not even me. We’re gonna need ideas from people who’ve had that level of success before. The best minds the industry has to offer.’

  ‘Right…’ Adam said, wondering if he was allowed to speak further.

  ‘So, y’know, it might be a partner comes in to invest on the live side,’ Roger said, ‘and gives us a whole bunch of marketing money.’

  ‘Well, that sounds great. I think—’

  ‘It might be that we do a licence. We don’t wanna go that way, but a lot of bigger labels want a piece of what we all got. It’d be dumb not to hear ’em out.’

  ‘I see,’ Adam said. He suddenly felt very tired, and a little confused. On the other side of the railing, which divided the patio from the rest of the courtyard, a very tall, skinny man with a shock of ginger hair had paused to look at his phone. In his other hand, he held a dog’s lead, and Adam followed the course of the expensive-looking leather cable to see a husky, standing obediently beside its master. The dog was wearing a red bandana and aviator sunglasses.

  ‘… We’re gonna have options,’ Roger was saying. ‘A lot of them. And we owe it to ourselves to look at them.’

  Adam glanced back at the dog. The aviators appeared to be genuine, gold-rimmed Ray-Bans, and he was fairly sure the bandana had a Marc Jacobs logo.

  The dog’s owner tutted, typing furiously into his cell phone. His own sunglasses matched the dog’s, Adam realized.

  ‘Everything OK, man?’ Roger said.

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Adam replied.

  ‘You look a little distracted.’

  Adam looked at Roger, and briefly considered telling him about the dog in sunglasses. No, he thought, sadly. That is not the kind of thing Roger will find amusing. He will probably consider it a sign of poor character that I’m questioning the animal’s right to protect its eyes.

  ‘Not at all, I’m just thinking about what you’re saying. As you know, Falconz are very, very important to the label. I believe we can hire in the people we need to make the next album a full-scale hit. There are independent radio teams out there producing number ones at Top 40 and Dance, and we can hire those people, no problem. They have genuine track records. I also have an idea about a—’

  ‘Those people can’t compete with major label in-house teams,’ Roger said. ‘It’s about leverage. It’s about “Here’s Adele. Now play Falconz.”’

  Adam felt the Belly Blaster churning acidly in his stomach.

  ‘It’s, like, who’s our Lucian Grainge, you know what I mean?’

  Adam frowned. ‘Lucian Grainge is the head of Universal Music Group,’ he said, unable to keep the edge of protest out of his voice. ‘He’s the most powerful man in the entire music business.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s the kind of person you guys need.’

  ‘To work… for us?’

  ‘Like a president.’

  ‘… Right.’

  Adam sipped his coffee. The man with the husky was on the phone now, talking quietly but quite angrily into it. As Adam watched, a slinky little Italian greyhound in a sky-blue coat ran into view and paused beside the husky’s rear, looking up at it and panting. The husky raised its tail.

  Maybe there’s some sort of dog meeting in this mall on Friday mornings, Adam thought. Like a play date for dogs. He risked a glance to his left, into the courtyard, but couldn’t see anyone obviously in charge of the miniature greyhound.

  ‘This is the kind of thinking we need to be doing,’ Roger said, triumphantly.

  ‘Yes indeed. I quite see what you’re saying,’ Adam said. I’m not good enough at my job, and we should hire someone who gets paid tens of millions a year basic to come and run our office of nine children and release fringe indie rock.

  ‘So do you, ah, have any offers on the table?’ Adam asked.

  The man with the husky had turned his back on it, and was now cupping his hand over his phone and hissing into it furiously. As Adam watched, the greyhound raised itself onto its back legs, exposing a bright purple, damp-looking penis, which looked very much like a lipstick. Adam choked on his coffee. He glanced at Roger, but saw that the manager’s view was obscured by a large urn, which had been planted up with a proliferating rosemary bush.

  In the background, Roger was still talking. Roger-dodger-kiss-my-todger, Adam thought, uselessly. Loud Enervating Asshole Fuckface. He forced himself to turn away from the dogs.

  As he did so, he was aware of sudden, furious movement. He glanced back, and saw that the greyhound was energetically humping the husky, its eyes wide and unblinking, swelling with ecstasy. The husky stood as casually as it had before, its fur rippling very slightly with each thrust, but otherwise behaving as though nothing was happening.

  ‘Adam,’ Roger said. ‘Hey, Adam.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Adam said, looking back. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘Listen, man. I know this is hard news. I know you’re having a few issues of your own right now.’

  ‘What?’ Adam said. ‘What issues?’

  ‘The artist community is small, man,’ Roger said, as though relaying an unfortunate truth. ‘Interconnected. I think people are a little worried about your office’s capacity. Especially after the other night. Issues of safety, you know what I mean?’

  Adam shook his head, trying to think. Capacity?

  The husky barked, once. Involuntarily, Adam looked at it. The greyhound was thrusting faster, its hindquarters a blur. The husky barked again, and its owner turned, and said ‘WHAT?’ so loud that even Roger now looked over.

  Just as he did so, the man screamed and dropped his phone. ‘OH MY FUCKING GOD,’ he shrieked, ‘SOMEONE IS RAPING MY DOG!’

  ‘Christ,’ Roger said, standing up. He picked up his glass of water and attempted to throw the contents over the greyhound, which neatly sidestepped the liquid, taking the husky’s rear with it as it did so, and looked Roger in the eye, unblinking, as it carried on its business.

  ‘Who owns this freaking animal?’ Roger said. He glanced at Adam, then back to the greyhound, noticing the line of sight.

  ‘Adam,’ he said. ‘Did you know this was happening?’

  A loud, female scream came from the other side of the courtyard. A woman – who looked a little like Steven Tyler of Aerosmith – came hurtling past the central fountain. ‘Francis,’ she screamed. ‘Francis, NO!’

  ‘FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP!’ the husky’s owner shouted.

  Just then, the greyhound convulsed in three separate, shuddering spasms, and dropped back down to all fours, wagging its tail and looking proudly up at its owner, who clattered to a halt in a blur of high heels, angular shopping bags, giant purse and strong perfume.

  ‘Oh my God,’ the husky’s owner sobbed, dropping to his knees by his dog, tears streaming down his face. ‘Oh my fucking God, he came inside Jonathan.’

  By the time a mall cop in a blue uniform had arrived on a Segway, Roger was making his excuses and fitting a Bluetooth headset to his ear. He left the restaurant without shaking Adam’s hand.

  Shit, shit, shit! Adam thought. Losing Everything ASAP. Fuck!

  When the waiter arrived with the check, Adam sent it back and ordered a margarita.

  10

  Thankfully, Friday afternoons in Los Angeles were usually plain sailing. By the time Europe, then Britain, then the East Coast and then the Midwest had all knocked off an hour early to go drinking, it was still only about 3 p.m. Adam sat behind his laptop, gratefully numbed
by booze, listening to ‘Never Let Me Down Again’ by Depeche Mode on repeat.

  He glanced over at Scott, who was listening to his own Spotify playlist, as usual. Like the universe, Scott’s playlist was always expanding.

  Maybe I can just leave, Adam thought. Offer no explanation. Go to the river and try to see the osprey. Get away from here.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a chat window appearing on his screen. It was Scott.

  Yooooooooo, it said.

  Hi, Adam replied.

  What’s up? Scott typed.

  Adam frowned, unsure how to respond. Hadn’t Scott contacted him? Had he sensed something was wrong, and was actually expressing concern for Adam’s well-being? That really would be a turn-up for the books.

  He considered simply turning to Scott and talking to him, but the idea filled him with dread.

  What’s up yourself? he settled on.

  Easy Friday vibes, Scott typed. Chillin’. Couple things I wanted to bring up.

  OK, Adam typed.

  I guess we should talk to Meg, before the weekend?

  Shit, Adam thought. Yes. Shit, he typed. Yes.

  Also, Hype just ran this piece on The Suffering, and the showcase…

  OK, Adam typed. Send me a link. Actually no, just summarize it. If that’s easy enough.

  It’s pretty good. Super positive on the band. Dean Shprits just read it and hit me up. He’s gonna put us in a big playlist next week. Show us some love. You know. Support Cy.

  That’s great.

  Yeah. I mean, the album is totally awesome. We just needed an angle. Kinda weird to say but, we kinda got one now…

  Adam frowned, an itchy heat rising in his neck. You said the album wasn’t good? he typed.

  No I didn’t? Scott replied.

  Yes, you did, Adam typed. You were quite emphatic on that point.

  The song in Adam’s headphones finished. A few feet away, Scott bashed at his keyboard. The air between them had tensed.

  I don’t remember that, the message came.

  Adam sighed, restraining himself. What else does the article say?

  It’s a LITTLE negative about the label. But it just says artists need to be nurtured, that type of shit.

  OK. I’ll read it later.

  Cool cool. So you wanna talk to Meg?

  Yes.

  Scott whipped off his headphones and stood, performed a couple of stretches, and then sauntered across the room. When he reached Meg’s desk, he perched on it, cocking his head sympathetically. She pulled off her own headphones and looked up at him.

  ‘You alright?’ Scott said.

  ‘Getting there,’ Meg replied, sadly.

  Adam walked over, trying to adopt a pose that wasn’t awkward, wondering what to do with his hands. In the end, he shoved them in his back pockets.

  ‘Shall we go downstairs for a chat?’

  ‘Why not?’ Meg said. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Shall we send the intern out for coffee?’ Scott asked.

  The Friday intern, whose name was Michael, was sitting six feet away from Scott and wore no headphones. His cheeks flushed, and he turned his eyes down to the keyboard of the spare, ancient laptop he’d been allocated.

  ‘Michael,’ Adam smiled. ‘Would you mind? Get yourself something too of course.’

  ‘Coffeeeeeee,’ Scott said happily. ‘I’ll do a cappuccino. Skim milk though, dude.’

  ‘Sure,’ Michael said. Adam handed him a twenty, and made a mental note to give him some vinyl later. He vividly remembered his own long years as an intern.

  In the meeting room, Scott took up his usual position on the sofa, a cushion in place on his lap. He glanced expectantly between Adam and Meg, who took a seat in the corner.

  Adam was rather nervous of Meg. He thought very highly of her, but had found it difficult to build a rapport. Neither of them was the type to do so around their shared nationality. And in her new life in LA, she’d thrown herself into politics, becoming involved with several organizations and quickly winning friends among their ranks.

  She’d recently begun to voice radical opinions in the office that Adam found difficult to resist challenging. On the occasions he had, it had not gone well. She reminded him of his younger self in that regard. Made him see how annoying he must have been to older colleagues who’d been unable to resist challenging him and had been equally frustrated by his youthful certainty.

  And did he perhaps envy her a little? She was joining in, meeting people, making a life, while he, with his hikes and birding, had become almost solitary.

  And his nerves were worse today. He was stiff with anxiety, and he felt ashamed. The very notion of being in charge, in the face of this problem, seemed inhuman and ridiculous.

  ‘That’s a cool badge,’ he said, as an icebreaker, gesturing at a plain white jigsaw puzzle piece pinned to Meg’s denim jacket.

  ‘Oh yeah, that. Thanks,’ she said. ‘Gonna be wearing it a whole year.’

  ‘Really?’ Adam asked. ‘Why a year?’

  ‘It’s a white privilege badge. It’s like a challenge, to remind yourself every day.’

  Scott nodded sagely.

  ‘Ah…’ Adam said, the icebreaker having revealed itself to be more like thin ice. ‘Well, we wanted to discuss what happened on Tuesday. I’m sorry it’s taken a while, what with everything that happened at the showcase…’

  ‘Sure,’ Meg said. ‘It would have been good to talk sooner, but I get it.’

  ‘Yes, understood, I apologize for that,’ Adam said. ‘I think ideally we’d have another woman in here actually, but everyone’s out. Would you rather wait?’

  ‘No,’ she said, waving a hand. ‘Honestly, that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Meg,’ he said. ‘For what happened, and also for not dealing with it faster. It’s not good enough.’

  The selfishness of his recent distractions instantly and horribly clear, he meant the words, and they came with a tremor in his voice. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Thank you,’ she nodded, relaxing fractionally.

  ‘I’ll call Fischer, and tell him what happened was unacceptable. I’ll also speak to his producer.’

  ‘Alicia?’ Scott said.

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘Alicia.’

  ‘Actually, I think Alicia might be moving off the show,’ Scott said. ‘I heard from my BFF Sarah over there that she might get that job.’

  ‘Alicia is still the producer now, yes, Scott?’ Adam said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well then, I will talk to Alicia.’

  ‘All that’s great,’ Meg said. ‘I just think maybe we need to go a little further?’

  ‘OK. Further like how?’ Adam asked.

  ‘I dunno. Like, couldn’t we name and shame him? We could call him out on social media. I’d be happy to go public. Use my real name.’

  Adam considered this. ‘Well, we can’t name or shame him on the label’s social media without a much wider discussion with HQ. If you want to, we could certainly ask. I’m sure Jason would have some… thoughts.’

  ‘I didn’t necessarily mean the label’s socials,’ Meg said.

  ‘Right,’ Adam said. ‘Well, obviously it’s entirely your decision if you want to call him out personally. If you’re sure you feel comfortable. It might get quite ugly.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Meg nodded.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can to support you, of course. I’ll make an official complaint immediately. And obviously we’re not going to be able to work with him any more after this.’

  ‘OK,’ Meg said. ‘I’ll think about it. Thank you.’

  Adam glanced at Scott, who’d gone rigid with apparent alarm.

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Scott said. ‘On socials. Can we? I mean, we can’t drag the label into anything.’

  ‘We’re not,’ Adam said. ‘Meg is considering making a public statement on her own behalf. The fact she works here is incidental.’

  Meg looked sharply at Scott.
The atmosphere in the little glass room seemed to be curdling.

  ‘But that would involve the label. The label’s name is gonna be all over it. And there has to be some sort of… due process?’ Scott said.

  ‘Yes. Me calling Alicia is the due process. Anything else is Meg’s personal decision. I don’t think it’s any of our business.’

  ‘But it’s gonna cause a shitstorm around the company,’ Scott said, moving to the edge of the sofa and glancing between them. ‘Surely we need to consider this properly? Discuss it with the team? We should talk to Jason.’

  Adam’s pulse beat faster. ‘This has nothing to do with Jason,’ he said.

  ‘Jason is the boss,’ Scott said, fixing his gaze on Adam.

  Adam felt a wave of rage that came very close to overwhelming him. He wanted to scream, grab Scott’s perfect hair in one fist and beat him with the other. He might be my boss, you little prick, he wanted to shout, but I am yours.

  ‘Well, this dickhead involved the label himself,’ Meg said, her voice rising in volume, ‘when he showed a label rep pictures of his dick. I mean, if I went out to my email group with this they’d have a field day. I could maybe give an interview? To an ethical outlet?’

  ‘I am not going to tell you what to do in that regard,’ Adam said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Everything was blurring – rage towards Scott, the need to demonstrate his own authority, his instincts for righteous drama and for chaos. Amid all this, the most important element – what was simply the right thing to do – was becoming obscure. The alcohol’s pleasant numbing effect had long since worn off, leaving a dull headache in its wake.

  Meg had flushed, and was trembling. She turned to Scott.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, her voice turned to ice, ‘I don’t need anyone’s permission to call out a creep. And I’d suggest you don’t push the theory that I do.’

  Scott flinched, looking afraid. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Meg,’ Adam said. ‘Take the night to consider things. Talk to someone you trust about it, then do what you think best.’

  Meg’s face looked stiff, but she didn’t cry. ‘I feel like if this is the shit I’m gonna have to deal with every day in this industry, I might as well go back to bartending.’