‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’
‘I know, isn’t it?’ Grandma Lou says. ‘In the meantime, could you fetch a few more logs in, so I can keep the wood burner going later?’
I’ve gathered up an armful of logs from the woodstore, Pie hopping from one shoulder to the other as if supervising, when Sheddie’s van pulls up outside the flats. A thin woman with scraped back hair gets out, carrying a suitcase and a couple of bulging bin bags. A teenage girl and a kid bundled up in a too big cotton jacket follow, hauling more rucksacks and bin bags from the van. Something about the scene seems strangely familiar.
‘Hey,’ I call. ‘Welcome to Greystones … I hope you’ll like it here!’
The girl turns round, one eyebrow raised, unimpressed. It’s Sharleen Scott’s default expression. ‘I’m blaming you,’ she says. ‘You put the idea in my head. I wish I’d never mentioned it … now I’ll be stuck living with a bunch of bloomin’ hippies! Talk about out of the fryin’ pan into the fire. Don’t you dare tell anyone at school, OK?’
‘I won’t!’ I say, stifling a grin.
‘This is my mum,’ she tells me. ‘And my little sister, Britney, who is a total pain in the –’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I interrupt quickly, grinning from behind my armful of firewood.
‘You’re Phoenix Marlow, aren’t you?’ the little girl says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘I’m your biggest fan! Can I stroke the magpie?’
Pie preens a little while Britney admires him.
‘Not joking, my life is over,’ Sharleen huffs. ‘Living in a freakin’ mansion house with a load of weirdos … and a freakin’ magpie! You gonna help with this stuff, or not, Posh Girl?’
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Sharleen Scott, it’s that her bark is worse than her bite … and that her temper improves hugely when you feed her chocolate. I guess I’ll be stocking up on Fruit and Nut, then.
‘Who actually is Fliss Benito?’ Lee is asking. ‘I’ve never even heard of her!’
‘She’s the up-and-coming singer who got sick and missed her chance of appearing on Lola Rockett’s New Year Round-Up,’ Marley says. ‘The person who gave us our ticket to fame and fortune. Remind me to send her a get-well card in the new year!’
‘Marley!’ I say. ‘That’s terrible! Imagine how she must be feeling!’
‘I don’t care,’ Marley declares. ‘Life’s a game of luck, and we just threw a double six. We’re going to London!’
I lift up the wicker cat basket with Pie inside it. ‘It’s quite a long way,’ I say. ‘D’you think he’ll be OK? He doesn’t much like travel!’
‘We need him,’ Marley says. ‘Every one of those newspaper pieces mentioned Pie the last time. And Sasha’s designed a whole look around him …’
‘I know, I know,’ I say. ‘I want him there, but I don’t want him to freak out – it’ll be noisy and busy and he might not like the lights …’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Marley says. ‘He’ll get used to it … you know, life on the road!’
I love Pie, but I don’t think I want him to get used to life on the road. Like Lee says, he’s a wild creature … he doesn’t belong in a wicker basket, rattling around from one place to the next. After reading the magpie book Lee got me for Christmas, I’m even more certain that keeping Pie with me, making him tame, may not be fair on him. I know how important freedom is, after all … doesn’t Pie deserve that too?
I check my mobile. It’s almost three and, though Mum’s car and Sheddie’s van are parked up and ready to depart, we’re still waiting for the others.
‘Here’s Sasha!’ Jake says as a red estate car pulls into the drive. The car is already packed with carefully wrapped costumes and accessories, but there’s just enough room for Jake. Bex and Lexie arrive too, their foster parents swooping by to pick up Sami, and Happi’s parents call in to join the convoy, although they’ve already collected Romy. Marley, Dylan and George turn up at the last minute, clambering into Sheddie’s van.
Mum emerges from the house, almost glamorous for what may be the first time in her life in a little black beaded dress borrowed from Grandma Lou’s extensive collection of vintage items. OK, so she has slung her tweed jacket over the top, but it’s still a vast improvement on her usual style. My mother clearly packed and drove to Millford in a mad hurry in the middle of the night, and has now exhausted her selection of horrible cardigans and lurid tweed skirts, which can only be a blessing all round.
‘Let’s do this!’ Sheddie yells. Lee and I jump into Mum’s little Citroën, Pie in his wicker basket on the seat between us, and the convoy sets off for London.
22
Wings
The TV studio is crazy busy. We’re assigned a couple of minders and whisked away for an instant soundcheck, because it seems Lola wants to record several tracks for use in future shows as well as have us play live.
‘Have you brought the bird?’ one of the minders asks. ‘The crow? Lola told us to check … she said it’s the perfect gimmick!’
‘Pie is not a gimmick,’ I argue. ‘And he’s a magpie, not a crow!’
‘I don’t care if he’s a freakin’ flamingo,’ the boy says. ‘As long as he’s here!’
We’re dispatched to the nearest dressing room, and Lee opens the wicker cat basket and sets Pie loose. He seems anxious, almost sulky, stalking around the countertops in front of the mirrors – he really doesn’t like that cat basket, and I’m not sure he’s keen on the whole TV-studio thing either.
Sasha opens her suitcases and boxes and begins hanging up clothes and setting out accessories. There are feathered headpieces and hats, and metallic feathered gauntlets with jagged cuffs that look like armour; there are cloaks and collars and skirts made of net and rags and feathers, and a huge pair of shimmering iridescent wings that glint in the light.
I am mesmerized by the wings. I stare and stroke and press my face against them. ‘I made them for you, Phoenix,’ Sasha says, lifting my arms and hooking the wings over them. The wings are heavier than they look, held tight by pure magic, gravity and thick black elastic. Instantly I feel different – taller, braver, stronger.
‘Oh wow,’ Bex says. ‘Amazing!’
‘Super cool,’ Lee says.
Pie perks up and zooms over from the mirrors to sit on my shoulder. ‘Crak, crak, craaak!’ he cries.
‘Can you move in them?’
I try a couple of dance steps, slowly at first, then faster. Lee plays a raucous trumpet piece and the two of us fall into step together, stomping and strutting and whirling round with Pie hopping easily between the two of us.
‘Those wings look incredible,’ Marley says. ‘Honestly, Sash, they’re awesome! How did you find the time to do it all? And how did you find the feathers?’
‘The local amateur dramatic society let me root through their wardrobe cupboards,’ she says, fitting the feathered ear piece from the Birmingham gig round my ear. ‘I found a full-sized blue-green feathered cloak, a whole load of black feather boas and some really cool two-tone fabric. And then I cut and stitched and glued for five weeks solid, because I knew it would look awesome and I knew we’d get our chance sometime … I wanted to make sure we were ready.’
‘We’re ready all right,’ Marley says, trying on a cape and gauntlets. ‘Oh, man … this is our moment, this is our time! Finally!’
The others join him, testing out hats and waistcoats and collars, choosing their stage accessories while Sasha sits me down in a swivel chair to do my make-up. I gaze at my reflection as Sasha sweeps jade-green blusher across my cheeks and paints emerald shadows above my eyes, and I wonder how I can keep up with all the ways my life is changing. Two months ago I believed I was a lost cause, bad to the bone, destined to mess up over and over. My only friend in the world was an adopted magpie, and I thought I had no skills or talents beyond stirring up a bit of trouble now and then to ease the boredom. Since then, I’ve moved from the Scottish highlands to the English Midlands, joined a band, p
layed my first big gig. I’m falling in love, forging friendships, feeling terrified and thankful, and I’m building bridges with my mum and learning to look beyond her gruff, no-nonsense exterior. I’ve even helped a girl who bullied me, learned a family secret and made a pact to keep it that way.
Now here I am, with Sasha painting glitter and stars on my cheeks, wearing iridescent blue-black wings and ready to appear on a top-rated national TV show. It doesn’t make any sense, but as always Pie is on hand to screech his affection into my ear and remind me not to get too above myself.
Is this what growing up is like?
A make-up artist arrives to help everyone get ready for the show, complimenting Sasha once she sees my make-up and working alongside her to get the rest of the band ready. Lee is wearing his feathered beret, Marley has his cape and gauntlets, the girls have matching net-and-feather skirts and everyone, even George, has either a hat or a headpiece. One of the minders puts their head round the door to warn us that we have five minutes till filming, and then we’re back in the studio and Lola Rockett is there, telling us she wants two or three songs to use over the coming months.
‘Who did your styling?’ she asks, nodding her approval. ‘Did Ked get one of his contacts to sort you out? I like it – it’s strong!’
‘Sasha did it all,’ Marley says, and Lola Rockett raises an eyebrow.
‘Call me when you’re eighteen,’ she says to Sasha. ‘I can use people like you behind the scenes on the show!’
Sasha looks ready to faint with joy. I wish I felt the same way – terror seems to be the dominant emotion for me right now, but I know that I can ride the waves of fear and survive it. At least, I hope I can …
‘Counting down!’ the cameraman yells, and abruptly I have that top-of-the-hill feeling again, only this time I imagine I’m sledging down, faster and faster, the wind taking my breath, the cold stinging my skin, and I step up to the mic and sing my heart and soul out, and the bright studio lights and the weird, clumsy cameras sliding in and out fade away completely.
I sing four songs in the end, and by the time we finish Lola’s eyes have narrowed and her mouth has quirked up into a smile.
‘Not bad,’ she tells us. ‘Not bad at all! I’m glad we managed to squeeze you on to the schedule. I think I’m going to juggle things a little, put you on last – and for two songs rather than one. I want you to do “Fireworks”, then we’ll do our little chat, our interview … and then I want you back on stage for “Rise Again” to take us up to the countdown to midnight. When the clock strikes twelve a storm of gold paper stars will be released from the ceiling, and we’ll all sing “Auld Lang Syne” as the credits roll, OK?’
‘Whatever you say!’ Marley says, eyes wide. ‘Thank you! I mean … wow!’
‘Got that switch?’ Lola asks the minders, and they scribble her instructions down on a clipboard. ‘The interview segment should be a winner,’ Lola ploughs on. ‘We’re going with the idea of you being schoolkids who’ve caught the eye of a much-loved pop legend and found yourselves in the spotlight. It’s an informal chat with you, me and Ked, to find out the story behind the band. Your head teacher has agreed to say a few words …’
‘Our head teacher?’ I echo. ‘You mean Mr Simpson?’
‘He’s very proud of you,’ Lola informs us. ‘A big fan, I believe!’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ I mutter, and Marley elbows me in the ribs.
‘So, that’s the plan,’ she says. ‘Just a friendly chat, really, and make sure you bring the magpie, of course. Try to forget you’re on live TV and kick back and enjoy the party, OK?’
‘We will!’ Marley promises, but the rest of us exchange panicked glances. This is starting to feel very real, and way more scary than the Birmingham gig.
‘Hey,’ Lee whispers, picking up on my fear. ‘Let go and enjoy it. You’re a natural, Phoenix. Don’t fight it!’
Lola shepherds us through to a crowded room where people in designer suits and sequinned partywear are eating, drinking fizz and laughing together. Are they bands and musicians, or managers, record companies, B-list celebrities? It’s hard to tell.
All I know is that Lola Rockett’s New Year party – the Green Room version, at any rate – is already in full swing. We’re standing on the sidelines, bizarre in our feathers and glitter, me with Pie on my shoulder and shimmering wings of my own. I can see our chauffeurs dotted about the room too – Mum in her borrowed vintage, Sheddie with his dreadlocks and tie-dyed T-shirt, the others looking slightly out of place in Christmas-present jumpers and neatly pressed jeans. It feels like we’ve gatecrashed some posh showbiz party … and actually, we probably have.
I quite like the idea of that.
‘Phoenix! Over here!’ Ked’s booming voice rings out across the crowded Green Room, and my eyes widen because I can see he is talking to Mum.
‘Act normal,’ she says under her breath as I approach, but there is no normal here, not when I’m wearing feathers in a London TV studio on New Year’s Eve and hanging out with an ageing pop legend who doesn’t even know he’s my grandfather.
‘Phoenix, we meet again!’ he says. ‘You’ve made quite an impression on everyone – you have real star quality, and I don’t say that very often these days. What presence, what energy, what a voice! You must be so proud, Vivi!’
‘Always,’ Mum says, and I smile, because slowly I’m starting to believe her.
‘Vivi has been telling me about your grandmother’s fall,’ he says. ‘We’ve chatted a few times over Christmas and she didn’t mention a thing – a very proud and stubborn woman, our Louisa …’
‘Runs in the family,’ I quip. ‘She’s fine now, though, honestly!’
‘What she needs is a proper rest,’ he decides. ‘I’ll whisk her off to my place in France for a few weeks in the spring – she loves it there! Now, Phoenix, Lola Rockett is over the moon to have you here – it’s a huge opportunity, so make it count. Just remember you’re at a big party with lots of lovely people, and forget those annoying lights and cameras. Put your heart and soul into it and you won’t go far wrong!’
‘I’ll try!’ I promise.
Ked is whisked away to be mic’d up, and Mum breathes a sigh of relief. ‘I haven’t seen him in decades, but he hasn’t changed,’ she tells me. ‘He’s a force of nature, and he likes things to be done his way!’
‘That runs in the family too,’ I point out, and Mum has the grace to laugh.
There’s one last band briefing with Lola Rockett, now transformed into her TV persona in a slinky silver dress and a fancy hairdo so stiff with lacquer that it doesn’t move at all. We meet the other musicians who will be performing – five acts in all, and each of us with a story. There are identical twin girls singing Americana folk, a grime collective from east London (one of whom happens to be a junior doctor), three students who met on a gap year in Australia and a grandmother from Cardiff who sings a cappella with the voice of an angel. I think briefly of Fliss Benito, who should have had our spot on the show, ill with laryngitis, and wonder if she’s sitting up in bed in some faraway town, dabbing at tears, ready to watch her hopes and dreams wash away.
Life – it’s a snakes and ladders game.
‘You’re here because you’re different, you’re new and you have a great backstory,’ Lola declares. ‘Our viewers are going to love you, I know it!’
We are ushered into the main studio at last. The place is decorated with stars and vintage wall clocks and set out like a hipster venue, with retro sofas and mismatched tables and chairs all bunched round a small stage. There are lights and cameras everywhere, and the audience are already in place. I spot Mr Simpson sitting primly at one of the tables trying to make conversation with Mum, Sheddie and a pink-haired woman in a polka-dot dress. I vaguely remember her from Grandma Lou’s bonfire party, and Lee tells me in a whisper that she’s the librarian from the library the band helped to save in the summer.
We are seated on sofas and armchairs in an alcov
e lit with fairy lights, and Lola Rockett steps up on to the stage to get the party started.
23
Lola Rockett’s New Year Party
By the time the cameras begin to roll, we’re drunk on thrills, terror and pink lemonade, which the waiters are handing out in champagne glasses. We watch the first couple of bands perform and see how Lola Rockett interviews them between the sets, spinning their stories into TV magic.
There’s a knot in my stomach, a frisson of fear. Turns out it all feels very different when you know your mother and your head teacher are in the audience, and that’s without even thinking about the people watching at home. Will my old Bellvale classmates see me? Will they laugh? By the time the minders come to take us on stage, nausea tilts the room a little and I’m actually frightened. This isn’t so much freewheeling down a hill, nor even sledging – it’s more like jumping out of a plane without a parachute, but a part of me loves this feeling.
The cameras home in on Lola Rockett in her silver dress, giving us a hyped-up introduction, Pie chirrups softly into my ear and Lee steps up beside me and squeezes my hand.
‘Wing it,’ he whispers, and I realize just in time that I have wings and won’t need a parachute after all. I have Pie and Lee and Bex and the others – I am not alone. I look into the audience and spot Sheddie and the other parents; my eyes lock with Mum’s, and I can feel her love and pride.
I step up to the mic and jump into the song.
I’m so lost in the music by the time we finish that the roar of applause washes over me as we run down from the stage to join Lola Rockett on the sofas. Ked is sitting on one of the armchairs now, as well as Mr Simpson and the pink-haired librarian.
‘I think it’s safe to say we’re ending the show – and the year – on a real high,’ Lola Rockett says as we settle ourselves down. ‘Let’s meet the Lost & Found … a high-school band with a magpie mascot and a very cool backstory! Lexie, Marley, you started the band, is that right?’
Forever Phoenix Page 14
