Angel Dares

by Joss Stirling

  He would be OK without me, that was clear. But would I be OK without him? I was going to have to learn how to live without a soulfinder.

  Back at the family breakfast table, it was comforting to watch the usual morning behaviour of my parents: Dad in his rumpled T-shirt and pyjama trousers playing with his cereal, Mum already dressed checking the weather forecasts on her tablet. The only odd thing was what they weren’t saying; they hadn’t even asked me what had happened, which must mean that someone had already told them everything.

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked, stirring my cereal. ‘Summer?’

  ‘What do you mean, sweetheart? Who was what?’ asked Mum, glancing at Dad. Gotcha, parents: you do know!

  ‘Who told you of my complete cluster bomb of a disaster at the festival?’

  ‘You weren’t a disaster—we saw your performance. Got it recorded for you,’ Dad said proudly.

  I sighed. ‘Not that. I meant the rest.’

  Mum sipped her tea. ‘No, not Summer. Victor Benedict called and gave us the full story.’

  ‘Oh Lord, in that case, you must think me a complete idiot—and a traitor to savants.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Angel. He said you made a couple of slips—the phone being the worst. How many times have we told you to put a passcode on it?’

  I slumped. ‘A million.’

  Mum nodded. ‘Exactly, but as for what happened yesterday, he says it wasn’t your fault—and that you were let down by him and his brothers. They should have realized that you could be targeted after the first attempt to snatch you went wrong. But they had got it into their heads that Gifted were the real target—Kurt Voss to be exact.’

  I picked up a pen and drew circles on a piece of junk mail lying on the table that promised me I’d win millions if I only entered their competition. ‘Well, that does make more sense: he is mega famous and I’m nobody.’

  Dad cleared his throat. ‘Not so, love. You are our special ray of sunshine.’

  I waved that away. ‘Of course, I’m special to you guys. I meant in the world’s eyes.’

  ‘Even by that measure you’ve become something of a name in your own right.’ Mum turned her tablet so I could see the gossip pages of a tabloid. There was a picture of me sitting on the beach with my back against Marcus’s chest. It must’ve been taken with a telescopic lens and fortunately missed out on the sea cutting his name into the sand. Instead, it had an artistic grainy effect, which made us both look really cool. I couldn’t stop the little flip of delight at seeing how good we were together. I scrolled down to read the text. Marcus Cohen captures his own angel. Hearts are breaking in teen bedrooms across the world as Marcus Cohen gets serious with newcomer Angel Campbell (17), singer with London band Seventh Edition. The rest of the article spun a lot from that not very much, digging up the fact that I was still at school but destined, it was claimed, for big things.

  As if.

  ‘He looks a nice enough lad,’ said Mum generously. ‘But he has been a fool, hasn’t he?’

  ‘No more than me. I rushed things. Spoiled what little chance we had.’

  Dad huffed. ‘I’m very cross with the whole pack of them.’

  A statement like this was so unexpected from my quiet dad that I gaped. ‘With whom?’

  ‘Those Benedicts for a start.’ He pushed away his cereal and topped up his cup of tea. ‘I asked Will to return you in one piece but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you’ve been hurt by all this—not to mention put your life at risk.’

  True: pieces of my heart were scattered like confetti between here and Rockport.

  He added a spoonful of sugar, forgetting he had given it up a year ago. ‘And as for this young rock star—he’s the last person I’d let through that door right now. Not appreciating the wonderful gift that is my daughter! He should be … ’ Dad brandished the teaspoon at me but couldn’t think of a suitable threat, not that didn’t sound like it came out of a nineteenth-century melodrama.

  ‘Made to sing kiddie songs in a silly costume on CBeebies for the rest of his life?’ I suggested evilly.

  Dad smiled. ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘But he was my soulfinder—and I messed up big time.’

  ‘We know, love,’ said Mum, putting away her tablet. ‘But you’re both so young: maybe when you’ve had a chance to grow up a bit you’ll be ready to try that again. At the moment, your relationship is so off balance, what with him being so famous and successful and you being … ’

  ‘At school,’ I finished for her.

  ‘Not that we don’t think you too can be famous and successful in your own right,’ said Dad stoutly.

  ‘But we shouldn’t wish that on her, should we? Not with us being savants and having to keep that quiet,’ countered Mum.

  ‘Oh flipping heck, it’s all such a mess.’ I buried my head in my hands. ‘You can’t un-famous people—Kurt and Marcus already rate the front pages.’

  ‘And so do you now. I guess we will have to settle for you being well known and discreet about your gift.’ Mum frowned, a little doubtful.

  Dad chuckled. ‘That will be a new one for you, eh, Angel?’

  ‘Don’t waste energy worrying about that. It’s not likely I’ll meet any of them again after how I left it last night. I’m not sure I even want to. I’ve had my five minutes of fame and that’s enough for me.’

  The home phone rang. I was surprised that anyone was calling as it was still early and those that knew what had gone on at the festival would be giving me a chance to sleep in. When I didn’t move, Mum answered.

  ‘Hello?’ She held out the receiver. ‘It’s Matt for you. Do you feel like talking to him?’

  ‘Sure—he’ll be wondering where I ran off to,’ I explained. I got up and walked into the living room to take the call. ‘Hey, Matt.’

  ‘Angel cake, where are you?’ His words were slurred.

  ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Not gone to bed—been selly … celebrating.’ He burped. ‘Hey, Henry, say hi to Angel.’ There was the sound of the phone being passed over.

  ‘Angel, why aren’t you here?’ asked Henry, also far from sober. ‘You’ve missed, like, the best party!’

  ‘I had to get home, sorry. What are you celebrating?’

  ‘Moment.’ The phone was handed back, dropped, curses followed, then picked up.

  ‘We’ve only gone and got ourselves a record deal, Angel: can you believe it? That dumbass Jay is not so much a dumbass—all that hanging around Barry Hungerford has paid off.’

  ‘Oh wow—congratulations!’

  ‘It’s for you too, Angel. Barry made that very clear—quote “the little Angel girl has to be part of the lineup” unquote.’

  Even though I had been as low as low could be, I felt my spirits rise a little at that. I hugged myself in glee. ‘How did Jay react to that?’

  Matt snorted. ‘Oh, he was very pleased. Wouldn’t have had it any other way. But we’ve got a meeting at Hungerford’s office in Soho on Monday. Can you be there?’

  ‘Of course—just email me the details.’

  ‘Will do. See you later.’

  ‘No, you won’t, you big lummox: I’m already home, aren’t I?’

  ‘Oh yeah. I forgot.’ His brain was on slow setting. ‘Why did you miss your chance to play with Gifted, tweetiepie?’

  ‘Oh that? It just didn’t work out.’

  He called Kurt a bad name and hiccupped. ‘That’s what these famous guys are like; I did warn you. Blow hot and cold.’

  I just remembered that I’d left Freddie and Black Adder behind. How could I have forgotten? ‘Matt, are you sober enough to do me a favour?’

  ‘Anything, love. You’re our ticket to sweet success.’

  ‘Can you pick up my gear from the instrument store—my amp and violins?’

  ‘No problem. It’s not like you to forget Freddie.’

  ‘I had a lot on my mind yesterday.’

  ‘OK, Angel: consider it done.’


  ‘Thanks.’

  I was dressed and sitting in the sunshine in our back garden when I had my next set of visitors. Mum showed Summer, Misty, and Alex out of the kitchen door, handing Alex a tray of iced homemade lemonade. She knew better than to give it to Misty to carry.

  ‘Hey, guys!’ I took out my earbuds and waved them to join me on the rug under the cherry tree.

  ‘What were you listening to?’ asked Misty, sitting cross-legged beside me and checking the playlist on my iPod. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Pathetic, aren’t I?’ I’d been listening to Black Belt’s back catalogue on a music streaming service. ‘Give me points for not watching the videos too.’

  ‘Not pathetic; completely understandable.’ Misty sipped her drink and gave a little shudder. ‘So cold.’

  ‘So good,’ murmured Alex, nibbling her ear.

  ‘Cut it out.’ Misty grinned at him, which was hardly very effective at persuading him she wanted him to stop.

  Feeling a lot jealous of their easy display of love, I changed the subject. ‘So what happened after Summer and I left? Did Jennifer show up?’

  Misty rolled her eyes. ‘No, but she sent Brian a text claiming she had a sudden family emergency.’

  The hollow in the pit of my stomach grew worse. ‘So they all got away? I nearly drowned and nobody is to blame?’

  ‘Seems that way,’ said Alex, ‘but I don’t think for one second that Victor is going to let it rest there. He’s on their track, convinced Davis has not given up on his idiotic plan to expose us.’

  ‘It all feels so unfair. So I climbed in that container myself, did I? Decided it would be a hoot to try a Houdini?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense to anyone outside the savant world so that’s why the Benedicts are keeping the story quiet. They’ve persuaded Marcus and Kurt not to mention it to anyone and the crane driver is hardly going to want to confess he dumped you in the harbour.’

  I curled my fingernails into my palm. ‘But I want justice.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Summer. ‘But as Alex says, it might not come immediately. You’ll have to trust the Benedicts to do right by you.’

  ‘My trust is rather at a low ebb at the moment.’

  ‘I know—with good reason.’ She left it at that, rather than make things worse by repeating her arguments until I got annoyed.

  I flopped on my back, trying to recapture my better mood. I held up my fingers, capturing the leaves and ripening cherries in their frame. ‘Oh, guys, I have something good to tell you. Jay got us a deal with Barry Hungerford, the record producer. Looks like Seventh Edition is going somewhere.’

  ‘That’s great, Angel,’ said Alex. ‘You deserve it.’

  ‘So last night wasn’t the only chance you were going to get, was it?’ said Misty brightly, referring to my missed opportunity to play with Gifted.

  ‘How very Sound of Music you are, Misty: when one door closes, the good Lord opens a window,’ I chuckled, paraphrasing Maria.

  ‘Don’t knock it: sometimes commonplace sayings hold the truth.’

  ‘You mean like absence makes the heart grow fonder?’ I asked, thinking of Marcus and me.

  ‘Or time heals all wounds,’ said Summer gently. ‘I think you should let Marcus process the new information about the savant world. He’ll have Will on hand with Margot to keep reminding him that he’s got a connection to you he can’t ignore. He’ll come round.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want him to come round.’ Leaving it at that, I rolled over onto my stomach and put my forehead on my arms, hiding my expression. I had that wobbly feeling around my mouth that heralded a good cry. What was wrong with me—happy one moment, in despair the next? Oh yeah, I’d met my soulfinder: that was the problem. My friends tactfully moved on to other subjects and left me to my moping.

  I got up to see them out and spent the early afternoon quietly playing with the garden hose, honing my control, seeing how far I could push my powers. After the scary time shut in the container, I had to reassure myself I had some energy left and I’d not blown it all by holding back the sea. I could tell Mum and Dad were worried about me. They weren’t used to me staying at home and, well, being more like them in refusing to go out. Mum kept making helpful suggestions—ring a friend, make an appointment with a hairdresser, go for a walk with the neighbour’s dog—but I ducked each one. Dad did drive me to the local phone shop and waited outside while I replaced my lost mobile. The assistants in there all knew me from school. They were sweet about my appearance on television and the news stories, teasing me for becoming famous.

  ‘The press will have forgotten me tomorrow,’ I told them, attempting a smile.

  From the puzzled reaction my modesty received, I knew I had to be acting very out of character. Old Angel would have been lapping up the attention. How to explain that looking at the photos of the festival was like ripping a plaster off a wound?

  ‘They won’t forget,’ Sophie assured me as she packaged my phone back in its box. She had left my school last year and knew me a little from the sixth form common room. ‘You were really great: we were all amazed. You were good at the gigs round here but that was something else.’

  I pondered her words as I got back in the car. I’d been ‘something else’ because I had been plugged into the extra power of my soulfinder. Even my triumph was a fraud, now I thought about it. I was beginning to think I should bow out of the meeting with Barry Hungerford: he wasn’t signing up whom he was expecting after that performance, just her shadow.

  Will you just listen to yourself? snarled Angry Angel, giving my moping self a kick up the butt. Enough with the self-pity! Forget Marcus. You were a musician before he came along. What better way to test your real talent than seeing how far this deal will take you? You don’t totally suck as a performer without him so just get on with it. The guys are depending on you.

  Pitiful Angel whined and licked wounds but Angry Angel took her shoulders and gave her a shake.

  Pack it in! I called for order in my warring sub-conscience. Angry Angel had made some good points. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending my life waiting for a guy to get his act together: that was so lame. I would climb on board the adventure that was offered, not worry about the one that had stalled on the starting grid.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting of a record producer’s office but Barry Hungerford’s was not it. His company was on the third floor of an old eighteenth-century townhouse overlooking Soho Gardens, a little park in the centre of the Bohemian district of London. We were in the middle of the theatre and restaurant district but the area still held the edge of being part of the red-light zone so I suppose the record producer thought that gave him some street cred. The stairs were narrow and the carpet on the tatty side. The only reassuring notes were the framed photos on the wall: it looked like a rock hall of fame—nearly all the most important bands and artists of the last twenty years had their mugshot here. Matt poked me in the back as on the turn to the third-floor landing we came face to face with several shots of Gifted when they were starting out. Kurt Voss looked like an alley cat back then, not the sleek and dangerous puma he had become, long black hair hanging over his eyes, a studded collar round his neck. The final photo just by the buzzer for reception was a recent one of Black Belt, Marcus looking moody as he sang, his band mates lost in the music: it was a great picture. I sincerely hoped Jennifer hadn’t taken it or I would have to hate it on principle.

  How had Brian reacted to the news that Jennifer had been a spy in the camp? Had Kurt even told him?

  Jay rubbed his hands nervously then pressed the buzzer. A handsome young man with shaved black hair and lanky frame opened the door. He had sharp cheekbones and an expression to match.

  ‘Hi, everyone. I’m Ali, Mr Hungerford’s PA. He is expecting you—just wrapping up a call to the US. What can I get you to drink?’ He ushered us into a little boardroom that looked out onto the garden square. The room was a contrast to the stairs: stripped oak floor, big ta
ble with metal legs and clear Perspex top, chairs made out of moulded plastic, probably by some up-and-coming designer. Prints of classic album covers decorated the walls. It felt a little cold. I had the odd image I was sitting in a shark’s mouth, not helped by the pigeon-deterring spikes on the windowsill that looked like rows of teeth.

  We made our orders. Jay had the balls to order something complicated—an espresso I think he said. I asked for water and slid into a chair at the end of the table, far from the one at the top with arms—a carver they were called in dining-room sets. I imagined Hungerford sitting there to slice and dice his deals.

  Five minutes of awkward conversation passed, then Ali was back with the drinks, Barry Hungerford coming in behind. He was dressed in a navy blue Paul Smith suit so new that it surely had a few flakes of tailor’s chalk still on it. A bright cerise tie throttled his neck under the crisp white collar of his light blue shirt. His short brown hair with fair highlights was swept back from his forehead, eyes steely grey and hungry for the next deal.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Thanks for coming in. Angel, you’re looking pretty today.’ He came round and kissed my cheek as if we were the best of friends.

  I had made an effort for the meeting, putting on a favourite pale green silk top, but the last time I had seen him he had been treating me like athletes’ foot. Now I was flavour of the month. Sensible Angel whispered to me to take this as a lesson in the fickleness of fame. One day I was Hungerford’s trump; next I’d be his discard.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Hungerford,’ I said, acknowledging his compliment while Jay struggled to smile at the fact he had gone over to me first.

  ‘Barry, please.’ Hungerford went to the top seat and took his place. ‘Where’s the fricking champagne, Ali?’ (He didn’t say fricking but I can’t bring myself to transcribe his every swear word). ‘Go fetch a fricking bottle—we’re going to need it to toast our deal.’