Read Chapter 11: The Business of Music

The Polydor offices smelled of stale coffee, new carpet, and money. Mara had been in enough record label receptions to recognize the formula—glass partitions, framed gold discs, receptionists with perfect teeth who looked through her rather than at her. But this was different. This was the office of Alan Cross, A&R man with a reputation for signing bands before anyone else heard them, and his secretary had said *sit anywhere you like*.

Mara hadn't sat. She'd been standing at the window for ten minutes, watching Soho choke itself on lunchtime traffic, playing through the conversation she'd rehearsed on the Tube. *I'd like to discuss ownership of negatives. Industry standard is thirty percent. I've got references from NME, Melody Maker, two covers for Sounds—*

"Miss Ellis."

She turned. Alan Cross stood in the doorway holding a manila folder thick enough to suggest he'd done his homework. He was shorter than she'd expected, with a face that had lived through every deal he'd ever made and the smile of someone who'd never lost sleep over any of them.

"Please. Sit."

She sat. The chair was leather and too soft, designed to make people relax before they signed things they shouldn't. She kept her spine straight.

Cross settled behind his desk, opened the folder, and read for a moment before looking up. "Impressive portfolio. The Who at the Roundhouse, Bowie at the Marquee, Zeppelin's last Earl's Court show—who shot that?"

"I did. Rear of the pit, right side."

"Right side." He turned a page. "Everyone shoots Zeppelin from the left. Bonham's side." He tapped the folder. "You shot them from the drum riser angle because you wanted the sweat coming off Page's neck in the backlight."

Mara said nothing.

"I like photographers who think." Cross closed the folder and pushed it aside. "Which is why I'm going to be straight with you. We're building a promotional division. Full-color spreads, album sleeves, press kits, tour documentation. We need someone who knows how to move through a crowd without being noticed and how to get the shot nobody else gets." He slid a single sheet across the desk. "This is what we're offering."

Mara looked at the offer.

For three seconds, she didn't breathe.

The salary was better than she'd make in five years of freelancing. She'd have health insurance, a company car if she wanted one, a darkroom budget that would make Frank weep with envy. But it wasn't the money that stopped her breath.

It was Clause Seven.

*The artist hereby assigns to the Company all rights, title, and interest in any and all photographic works created during the term of this agreement, including but not limited to negatives, transparencies, contact sheets, and digital or other reproductions thereof, whether commissioned or otherwise.*

"Exclusive," she said, hearing the edge in her voice.

"Standard." Cross leaned back. "You shoot for us, we own what you shoot."

"And if I shoot something on my own time? My own project?"

"Then it's ours." He said it like he was telling her the weather. "Within the term. That's how label photography works, Miss Ellis. The band owns the album, we own their image, and the photographer—" he spread his hands, a benevolent king explaining taxes to a peasant, "—the photographer gets paid. Handsomely. And consistently."

Mara read the clause again. Then the page beneath it, the one she almost missed because it looked like boilerplate.

*The Company reserves the right to license any works produced under this agreement to third-party publications without additional compensation to the artist.*

Tabloids. That was what that meant. The label could sell her photos of their bands—candid, unguarded, in the wrong place at the wrong time—to the papers that paid for blood.

She set the offer down carefully. "I shoot the Unknowns tonight. That's not under contract."

"It won't be." Cross smiled. "But after tonight, when they're the hottest unsigned band in London and everyone wants them, you'll be glad you have a contract that can get you access—"

"I already have access."

"—or you'll watch another photographer walk in through the door we opened." He wasn't smiling anymore. "I've seen your file. You know what's in it."

The word *file* hung in the air between them like a threat.

"My file's got pictures."

"Your file's got unpaid invoices. Equipment repossession orders. A bounced check from that freelance job you did for Polydor last spring that you never made good on." He folded his hands. "You owe us one hundred and forty pounds, Miss Ellis. That's not a debt I can ignore, even if I like your work."

Mara's mouth went dry. Frank had loaned her the money to pay that debt. Frank had covered her, because that's what friends did. But Frank wasn't signing her checks, and she'd been a fool to think the label would forget.

"The salary covers the debt," Cross said, as if he were doing her a favor. "Take the contract, it's cleared. You'll have a camera in your hands tonight, at the Palladium, shooting the band that's about to make you famous." He slid a pen across the desk. "Or you can walk out of here and owe us a hundred and forty pounds you don't have, with no camera, no film, and no way to shoot the gig that could save your career."

The pen sat between them.

Mara pictured the roll of undeveloped film in her bag. Lenny's face, mid-laugh. Evidence of a crime she couldn't even name yet. If she signed, that roll became property of Polydor. Everything she'd shot in the last year would become theirs to bury. But if she didn't sign, she lost the only leverage she had left.

She reached for the pen.

Cross's eyes flickered with satisfaction.

And the door opened.

Robbie walked in like he owned the building. He was wearing the same leather jacket from the showcase, but there was something different about him—a confidence that shifted the energy in the room. He looked at Mara, looked at the contract in her hand, and stopped.

"Don't sign that."

Cross's expression hardened. "This is a private meeting. Security—"

"Will escort me out?" Robbie smiled, all charm and no warmth. "I've got five minutes before my meeting with Dex upstairs. I thought I'd come find my photographer." He turned to Mara. "You didn't mention you had a business meeting today."

"Because it's none of your business."

"Except it is." He crossed the room and picked up the contract. "Because you're shooting for us tonight, and I don't want my band's image owned by a label before we've even signed our own deal." He read the page, read it fast, his eyes skating over the dense type until they landed on the clause she'd been staring at. "You read Clarke Seven?"

"The fine print." She took the contract back. "I've read it."

"Then you know what they'll do with them. Your negatives. They'll sell everything—the candids, the outtakes. They'll sell the moment a band member's crying outside a van because they'll print it on a page next to a headline about a breakup. Is that why you shoot, Mara?"

Cross rose. "Mr. Marsh—"

"It's Vale." Robbie didn't look at him. He was looking at her, and his eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them. "Ask what they'll license. Ask what they'll do when the Unknowns break big and there's a tabloid editor offering fifty pounds for a photo of Lenny Marsh doing anything—anything—someone can write a story about."

Mara felt the floor tilt.

Lenny's face on the roll in her bag. The film she'd hidden not because it mattered to anyone but her, but because she knew what it was worth to the wrong hands.

"One hundred and forty pounds," she said quietly.

"What?"

"My debt. That's what they're holding over me."

Robbie went very still. He looked at Cross, then back at her, and something in his face shifted—the anger cooling into something harder, more careful. A businessman's expression.

"Sign it," he said.

"What?"

"Sign it. Tonight, after the showcase, you meet me and I'll clear your debt myself." He took a step closer. "Ask me why."

She didn't have to ask. She could see it in his eyes: this wasn't about her. This was about Lenny. About whatever he'd promised, whatever he was afraid she'd see.

The pen was still in her hand.

"Page four," Robbie said softly. "Before you decide. Read the clause about external licensing."

She turned the page.

Her own handwriting stared back at her. A note, penciled in the margin from when she'd first been pitched this contract three weeks ago, before the reference check had gone wrong and Dex had interceded. But the note was different now. Not in her voice.

*They call first. Always.—R*

She looked up.

Robbie's jaw was tight. "The fine print isn't what I wanted you to see. It's who wrote the fine print." He held her gaze. "Jack Mercer drew up this contract. The same man who told Lenny to make sure I never heard his name again. The same man who knows Danny Vale is alive."

The room went cold.

Cross looked between them, his smile gone. "I think we're done here."

"No." Mara set the contract down. "We're not. Tonight I shoot the Palladium. And after that?" She looked at Cross, then at Robbie. "I'll decide what my work is worth. To both of you."

She walked out, the roll of undeveloped film burning in her bag against her hip. She didn't look back to see if Robbie followed.

She could feel his gaze on her, though—like a question she didn't yet know how to answer.