by Grace Dent
“S’pose so,” I say, wiping more tears on Claude’s shoulder.
And then Claude begins to cry too.
enter the mud people
In the meantime, Astlebury has been transformed into a vast, grotesque swampland. Between 4 A.M. and 6 A.M., the gentle British tippy-tappy of rain has accelerated into a torrential Goan-style monsoon, meaning that by the time Claude and I crawl from our leaking tent to embark on our manhunt, we have to crawl right back in again and dress for typhoon conditions. Quickly Claude is clad in Wellington boots and one of her mother’s huge checkered raincoats, holding a tartan golfing umbrella, while I tie black bin liners around my sneakers, head and body in a bid to make me vaguely waterproof. Sure, I’d planned to pack wet weather gear, but my rucksack was already heavy after I filled it with sunny weather gear, so I, er, didn’t. Then with the sun beginning to snook its reproachful head from behind Briggin Hill, we set off on our mission—Claude resembling an insane Ghanaian granny, and me waddling behind like a disgruntled polyethylene Big Foot.
Every route we take is soggy and thick with muddy puddles of water. Damp, miserable muddy people are wandering in every direction, trying to keep warm around bonfires, shivering under blankets as an uncharitable wind blows through the forest, dispersing the stench of three-day-old portable toilets through the fields. That said, I’m far from “lemon fresh” myself. In fact I stink like ripe Stilton cheese lost down the back of a radiator. I last showered at 8 A.M. on Friday morning—it’s now forty-eight hours later. My nails are filthy and muddy, my hair’s formed into huge wild tangles. Thankfully I’m far from home so no one important’s going to see me.
“Where do you want to begin?” I sigh to Claude.
“Pastures New?” she suggests, and off we trudge, in and out of the burger vans and coffee carts where hordes of folk are sipping coffee and smoking ciggies to keep warm. We plod past the skate park where depressed skaters are sweeping puddles of water from their beloved ramps and Jimi Steele look-alikes are crawling out of vans, cursing the weather. No Fleur. We wobble through the mud around the back of the Karma Quadrant, checking every face in the toilet queues. No Fleur. Then we soldier on, chatting total rubbish to each other about this and that, trying to keep our spirits up, past the tattoo parlors and the People Pod marquee, and by this point the sun’s rising high into the sky, making the fields feel much warmer. Eventually we reach the missing persons marquee, where a kind-looking lady in a multicolored striped jersey is snoozing facedown behind her desk, still clutching her clipboard. Behind the lady’s head a large poster warns girls about freaks who drug drinks:
MIND YOUR DRINK! IT MIGHT NOT BE WHAT YOU THINK!
Uggghh! I didn’t see that one last night! What’s with this marquee? That woman must just sit there, thinking up new and imaginative demises to scare me with. What sort of twisted ghoul would actually drug your drink? Aagggh ... I don’t even want to think about that! After checking the medical center again (no luck, although we did meet a guy who was getting treated for a form of trench foot), we wander back through the sea of muddy litter, which now is the Hexagon Stage field. Claude and I are just communicating with each other in grunts by now.
God, I really wish I was at home in my bed. Whose flipping dumb idea was it to come to Astlebury?
“Right, it’s three minutes to nine,” announces Claude as we rest by the VIP enclosure gates and its obligatory posse of black-shirted security guards. As the sun tries its utmost to dry the fields, Claude strips off her raincoat, revealing a mud-splattered magenta T-shirt, damp jeans, filthy arms and a very grimy golden wristband.
“I feel disgusting,” she sighs, staring at her phone yet again.
“Me too,” I say.
We both pause and look nervously at each other.
We both know fine well what the agreement was.
“So, who do we inform first?” I say.
Claude thinks for a second, eyeing one of the burly VIP guards with some trepidation.
“Well, I suppose we just tell one of those guys that we have an urgent police matter, then, well, that will be it, won’t it?” she says. “They’ll set the ball in motion. The police, Paddy, the media ... all that ... I mean she’s fifteen, Ronnie, she’s blonde and pretty, from a good family ... the whole of flipping Britain will be looking for her by midday. It’s going to be really heavy.”
“It’s already really heavy, Claude,” I sigh.
“So let’s get it over with,” Claude says, pointing toward a seven-foot-tall guard who looks a bit like a sofa with sunglasses. “He’ll do.”
Sorry, Fleur. We really have to do this. It’s for the best.
We tread gingerly over to the guard, Claude waving slightly at him as we approach. “Er, excuse me, sir,” she says.
The guard peers down at us suspiciously, chuckling a little at my bin-liner haute couture before bending down to examine first Claude’s golden wristband and then mine.
“Er, yes, excuse me,” begins Claude again. “We seem to have got ourselves into a spot of trouble ...”
But the guard’s not listening one little jot. He’s turning round, shouting to a crowd of other security men and women standing on the other side of the fence.
“We’ve lost our friend, you see?” continues Claude, raising her voice a bit, but I can barely hear her, because the massive metal VIP enclosure gates are sweeping open with a mighty thrashing of metal.
“Well, we’ve more than lost her,” shouts Claude. “She’s been gone for fourteen hours ... And, er, I know that you’re busy, and it’s not really your job, but do you think you could contact the police for us?”
The guard, who has totally ignored Claude’s little speech, gives a “thumbs-up” sign to his colleagues before staring back at us with a perplexed look.
“Eh? I beg your pardon, ladies? Missed all of that,” he smiles, nodding at the open gates. “But you’re free to go in now. Make it quick, though, ’cos we have to get these gates shut pretty sharpish.”
Claude and I stare at each other in utter confusion, then gaze in mystification at the open VIP gates.
“What!?” we both squeak in stereo.
“What? What do you mean, what?” says the guard. “You’re free to go in now.”
“We ... we ... can go through, into there?!” I gasp. “Into the VIP?”
“Errrrr ... duh ... yes!” says the guard as if he’s dealing with complete simpletons. “You’ve got gold wristbands. Look, you do want in, don’t you?”
We both stare at him with our mouths agog, just catching flies.
“Have you girls been taking drugs?” says the guard.
“No, we haven’t!” squeaks Claude.
Just this second a bloodred tour bus looms up behind us. The guard grabs his walkie-talkie and begins barking, “The Annanova crew are here! Repeat! Annanova crew are on their way in. Can you inform hospitality?” He turns to us and chivies us through the gates, less patiently now. “Look, shift your bums, girls, you’re going to get run over!”
It all happens quick as a flash. Within seconds, Veronica Ripperton and Claudette Cassiera are standing inside Astlebury’s legendary Very Important Person enclosure, totally gob-smacked, staring at our wristbands in overwhelming disbelief.
It’s surreal—no, it’s more than surreal. I feel totally dizzy.
“Claude,” I shriek, “we’ve... we’ve got... VIP wristbands!”
“I ... I ... er ... ooh, I know!” yells Claude as the gates slam shut behind us, making us officially part of the “beautiful people.”
“It was Spike! Spike Saunders!” I splutter. “He must have sent us VIP wristbands! And we didn’t even know! We didn’t even notice. None of us sussed that our wristbands were different from the other zillion folks’ who are here! I mean, did, d ... d ... d ... did you notice? I didn’t! Did you?”
My head is spinning now.
Claude is shaking her head, hopping from one foot to the other, half smiling, half crying. “So ... we�
�ve been VIPs all along!” she cries. “We could have met Carmella Dupris! We could have been hanging out backstage. Oh my God, Fleur would have been so happy. God, if we’d known about this, we’d never have been in that stupid crowd! We’d never have lost Fleur in the first place.”
“But what do we do now?” I say, feeling totally bewildered. “I really want to have a look around! But should we just call the police like we agreed?”
Claude bites her lip, eyeing the VIP marquee ahead of us. “Well ... I really need to use the bathroom,” she says, biting her lip nervously. “So I suppose we could use the VIP ones and freshen up a bit first, eh? And then call the police straight afterward?”
“Okay, that sounds fair,” I say, my stomach doing somersaults. “Oh, noooo, Claude! We’re going to use the VIP toilets! I won’t be able to pee if there’s anyone famous in there.”
“Me neither!” says Claude.
We drag each other up to the door of the marquee, where two excessively tall, fresh-faced, salon-coiffed blondes are standing, dressed like they’ve fallen off a catwalk wearing customized denims, funky silk vests and kitten-heel sandals displaying perfect pedicures and ankle jewelry. The girl with the whitest hair drawls heavily on a Marlboro Light, gossiping in a clipped Eastern European brogue.
“It’s bad en-uff that you’ve got to put up with that seelly beetch Hazel inviting Curtis to be front row with her at the Versacci collection,” huffs the girl, “but now she turns up here too!”
“Oh, tell me about it!” snaps the other tall, terrifyingly pretty blonde. “That Hazel Valenski is cruising for a kick up the ass if she even so much as lays one more finger on my Curtis!”
Claude and I sneak past, nudging each other furiously.
“Claude! Wasn’t that ... Tabitha Lovelace ... y’know, the supermodel!?” I say under my breath.
Claude spins around to double-check, letting out a little squeak.
“Yes! And that was Zaza Berry! The face of Helena’s Boudoir underwear!”
“They were slagging off Hazel Valenski!” I say, feeling extremely honored to have heard such high-level tittle-tattle. “That is all sooo Red Hot Celebs!”
“I know!” gasps Claude, but by this point we’re turning into the VIP enclosure, instantly forgetting about Zaza and Tabitha, because what lies before us is even more terrifically, awesomely wonderful.
We’re now standing in a vast black marquee, with a floor made out of black rubber and a raised DJ box in the corner. People are milling everywhere, but not muddy bin-baggy folk like me and Claude; oh, no, beautifully kept, heavily styled, zingy-clean people with gleaming skin, fresh breath and laundered socks. Oodles of folk hang around the bar area guzzling espressos, smoothies, Bloody Marys and straight bottles of Jack Daniel’s. Others feast on a vast buffet of delicious-smelling croissants, eggs Benedict and smoked salmon bagels served by chefs in large white hats. Vast plasma TV screens fill the entire back wall, playing highlights of last night’s Astlebury Hexagon Main Stage. As we pass by, Zander Parr fills every screen, stripped down to his underpants, victoriously waving a flaming torch at the audience.
“Look!” gasps Claude, nudging me. “Zander Parr! I don’t believe it! He’s there!”
I spin around, spotting Zander Parr, not merely on TV, but asleep on a sofa right beside us, looking all small and delicate, wearing the aforementioned underpants firmly on his head, wrapped in a Union Jack flag to spare his blushes.
“Oh, wow!” I say. “It’s really him.”
We peer at him, mesmerized by his famousness for a moment, before moving on to a bistro-style seating area where TV and radio crews are holding meetings about their day ahead. Men and women are lugging bundles of heavy cameras, wires and lights into the marquee, while TV presenters such as MTV’s Lonny Dawson and Chloe Kissimy are rehearsing their lines for today’s live links as well as making up questions to ask the bands.
“So, how have you been enjoying Astlebury so far?” Chloe Kissimy is reading off a piece of paper, over and over again, trying to commit the difficult question to memory.
In a small clearing in the chairs, kicking a soft football, are some lads we recognize straightaway as the hip-hop squad Blaze Tribe Five. They’re the first band on today. God, they are all so lush! Meanwhile, over in a quieter corner, slumped on a set of plush leather couches, SmartBomb, the three-piece Cornwall electronic dance act, are being interviewed by the Midnight Mayhem girls, Britain’s premiere tabloid gossip columnists. Fleur reads that page every day! Those girls are her heroes.
On an adjacent sofa, Mick Monroe, the editor of Red Hot Celebs magazine, is quaffing back champagne cocktails flanked by a flurry of beautiful girlies who are either a girl band, some more random models ... or simply a passing Swedish volleyball team, sent by God to make girls dressed in bin bags and raincoats feel inferior.
I don’t really know what to say by this point.
I’m suffering from celebrity overload! No one at school is ever going to believe this, and I’m far, far too cool to go up and ask for autographs. Claude is also beginning to walk funnily, as she’s totally desperate to pee and there’s no toilet sign anywhere. Asking anyone is out of the question. These people look like they’ve never pooed or weed in their entire lives.
“Okay, this is just too weird now,” I say to Claude. “It’s beginning to freak me out.”
“I know,” says Claude, picking some mud from her hairline. “I think we’re a tad underdressed.”
We look at each other, knowing that although it’s tempting to hang about and grow “acclimatized” to a VIP lifestyle, we’ve got a far bigger drama to handle.
One of us is missing.
And that’s when we spot the most freaky sight of all.
Commandeering the entire far corner, which boasts several squashy burgundy sofas, is a posse of people who just compel you to stare at them, as they’re all so impossibly, funkily, glamorous and “in-crowdish.” There must be more than two dozen of them, I’d guess, slumped together, like they’ve been up all night but want to carry on partying. They’re giggling and gossiping and playing guitars. The guys all seem to have long scruffy locks and a variety of facial hair, and they’re dressed in faded denim and kooky T-shirts. They look like male models attempting to look like normal Joes and failing, wonderfully. Several women are lounging among the clique too, all of them out of exactly the same angelic mold as Zaza Berry: tall, bronzed, willowy, vaguely bohemian, either lying with their pretty doe-eyed heads on the laps of a rock star, or sitting cocooned in a pair of strong arms, wearing beestung pouts of indifference.
You’d have to have lived on Jupiter for the last year not to recognize their ringleader, the legendary Curtis Leith, singer with the Kings of Kong. He looks like Jesus in blue jeans, chairing the Last Supper.
“Claude! It’s the Kings of Kong!” I splutter far too loudly, which thankfully no one hears, as the DJ has begun spinning some tunes.
“No, it can’t be,” says Claude. I don’t know who she’s arguing with, me or just the laws of reality.
“It’s them, Claude! It’s them!” I persist. “Over there, lying on the burgundy sofas, look! Curtis Leith! And Lorcan Moriarty, the lead guitarist, is there too.”
“You’re right!” shudders Claude. “And Benny Lake, the drummer!”
I home in on the tableaux more carefully, trying to pick out faces. There’s a chick I recognize from last winter’s Gap campaign ... Lilyanna someone? She was married to Zander Parr for, like, about five minutes. Beside her a brunette woman applies red lip gloss in a small heart-shaped mirror as a coffee-skinned model type regales everyone with a story about something fabulous she did last year in Cannes. And in the eye of the storm, chatting, giggling and looking supremely minxish, wearing this incredible pair of indigo jeans and an off-the-shoulder stripey top, is a blonde girl who might well be Tabitha Lovelace’s little sister. She’s pretty and slim, with slightly flushed cheeks. Maybe she’s an actress or a pop star or something. She looks
really familiar.
Uh-huh. Hang on.
“Claude!” I gasp, placing one muddy hand over my mouth. “You’re not going to believe this. I think that’s Fleur.”
Priends reunited
The next few seconds are an absolute whirlwind. Claude and I let out huge screeeeeeches, all the music and chatter seems to pause, and the entire room turns and gawps at the fuss. At the same time, Fleur Swan, for it truly is the little madam, sees us, emits an even more piercing euphoric eruption, then proceeds to charge at us, arms and legs and hair flapping, before scooping us both up and hugging us tightly.
“It’s yooooooooou!” she squeals. “You’ve found me! Oh, hurray!”
I’m so relieved to see her safe, well and not dismembered by the local neighborhood serial killer, I feel like collapsing.
“Fleur!” I say, getting a bit choked up. “We’re so pleased to see you!”
“Me too!” laughs Fleur. “Hey, and isn’t this all so great? We’re in the VIP!”
Claude, by contrast, is not letting Fleur off so easily. Propelling herself up to about seven foot, three inches of pure anger, she begins jabbing Fleur away with both hands, shouting, “Well, we can see that, can’t we?! You’re in the VIP!” stamping one foot, with eyes as black as a raging bull.
“I know!” coos Fleur. “Spike sent us VIP passes! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Wouderful!?” thunders Claude. “Wouderful, Fleur? You brainless, selfish, vacuous, idiotic bimbo. I could almost punch your lights out, you silly mare! How is it wonderful?”
“Er, it’s a bit wonderful,” I mumble, realizing the entire Blaze Tribe Five collective have pulled up seats to watch.
“Oh, and you can shut up, Ronnie!” yells Claude. “You’ve been worried out of your mind!”
Fleur’s not looking half as perky now.
“You are so out of order!” shouts Claude. “Who exactly do you think you are, putting me and Ronnie through all this worry?”
