It's a Girl Thing

by Grace Dent

  “But people don’t think that, do they?” Liam is whispering back, clearly in the grips of extreme last-minute nerves. “People will just laugh. They just think I’m some kind of joke. I am a joke,” he adds quietly.

  “Well, I don’t think you are,” says Claude, grabbing his hand. “You’re not a joke to me, Liam.” Claude notices me standing close by. “Er, or to Ronnie. Or to Fleur. We take you very seriously.”

  “Thanks, Claude,” says Liam.

  And then he’s gone, up the little set of stairs onto the stage, where Christy Sullivan’s fans have since dispersed in search of drinks to soothe their raw throats, leaving a less screechy, music-appreciative crowd.

  “This one’s called ‘Promise,’ ” begins Liam, picking up his guitar, earning a small cheer from the audience. Claude watches him proudly, singing along with the first verse quietly to herself.

  “Excellent, I’ve found you,” begins Dad, brandishing a carton of Singapore noodles and a yellow plastic fork. “And now, my child, it is time for Veronica’s lunch.”

  “Dad, I can’t eat a—” I begin to resist.

  “Woman cannot live on music alone,” interrupts Dad. “That’s the old proverb, isn’t it?”

  “Hmmm, not really,” I say as Dad wafts the tempting carton under my nostrils.

  “Well, I’ve not seen you eat a morsel now for twenty-four hours. So I’m putting my foot down,” Dad argues, being as stern as he possibly gets.

  “Oh, I suppose I could try a forkful.” I smile, grabbing the noodles with both hands, as admittedly they do smell fantastic, then flouncing off to the rear of the backstage area to grab a well-needed seat for ten minutes.

  “My fatherly work is done,” announces my satisfied dad, heading back toward the beer tent.

  So I’m sitting slurping my noodles, watching Death Knell change into their stage costumes with mild amusement. Not only are Ainsley Hammond and all the Death Knell boys wearing white laboratory coats smeared with (I hope) fake blood plus doctor’s stethoscopes, Candy and the rest of the girls are clad in tasteless secondhand white wedding dresses with lashings of black lipstick. Yessirree, Death Knell really are going overboard on the freaky look today. They look outrageously mad. Behind Death Knell, Leeza and Derren from Catwalk are having a last-minute rehearsal.

  “And a one, two, three, four, spin! Turn! Flutter your hands! Sashay!” shrieks Derren as Leeza prances around, pouting and spinning.

  “Perfect, darling!” announces Derren. “Just perfect!”

  Schluuuurrrrrrp I go loudly, my face drenched in soy sauce, pausing to pick a chunk of chicken from my back teeth.

  “Mmm, what fetching table manners.” Derren winces, throwing a snotty look in my direction. For some strange reason, I see this and just . . . well, I flip out, somewhat.

  “Oh, bite me, tangerine face!” I yell to Derren, standing up and taking my noodles elsewhere.

  Oh, how I wish I’d got a picture of that moment.

  Derren is uniquely lost for words, while Leeza, well, she almost collapses with shock that someone has answered them back. It feels great! Even if, bravely, I’m running away as rapidly as my hooves can carry me, I feel utterly jubilant; I’m barely looking where I’m going as I dart through the backstage crowd, half-expecting to be lynched by the evil Lycra-clad duo.

  And that’s when I spot a face weaving through the VIP area I find strangely familiar. Like a long-lost friend, but not quite, standing directly before me, seeming vaguely adrift and vulnerable. I stare for about a minute at the boy, who’s aged around nineteen or twenty, wearing a bottle-green baseball cap pulled right down, displaying only the smallest tuft of his sandy hair.

  Is it one of Fleur’s brother’s mates? No, that’s not it.

  Does he drink in the Fantastic Voyage? Nuh-huh.

  I’m too scared to say hello now, as I don’t want one of those embarrassing moments when I have to ’fess up I’ve forgotten his name, so I end up just staring even more, checking out his gray T-shirt and slightly flared pale-blue jeans, his strong jawline and perfect white teeth. I even recognize the distinctive way he walks. This is freaky. I feel like I’ve met him at least a thousand times before. But not here. Definitely in a different place. This makes no sense. Eventually he catches me staring and makes tracks toward me.

  “Hey, I’m, er, looking for Charlie. Have you seen him?” says the familiar voice.

  “Uncle Charlie?” I begin, my cheeks slightly flushing. “Er, I mean Charlie, yeah, he’s about. Somewhere . . .”

  “Uncle Charlie?” repeats the lad, smiling. “That’s too funny. I suppose he’s my uncle too, really. He certainly acts like it . . .” He chuckles. “So, you’ve seen him around here lately? I sorta need to tell him I’ve showed up. He’ll be, shall we say, surprised.”

  “Look, do I know you from somewhere?” I begin, deciding to come clean.

  But at that moment, Uncle Charlie appears like a furry tornado, whispering as loudly as a man can without actually shouting, dragging both me and the mystery guest into a corner for a private discussion.

  “OH, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE?!” Charlie exclaims, poking the lad’s chest. “What are YOU doing here? We agreed you’d lay low for the day.”

  “Pggghhhh, but I was soooo bored,” moans the lad. “I’ve been in the hotel for two days. I’d watched all the movies and ate all the room service toasted sandwiches I could face. . . . I want to meet some real people, Charlie!”

  “Well, that’s a good job, Mr. Saunders. Because there’s nearly two thousand of them out there. Is that real enough for you?” Charlie snaps, pulling his walkie-talkie from his pocket and barking into it. “Masher. MASHER! Gonzo! Calling all security!” bellows Charlie into his walkie-talkie. “Do you read me? We have an incident in the backstage area. Repeat: an incident. Spike has decided to make a little impromptu appearance. Repeat: Spike Saunders is in the area! Are you receiving this? Over.”

  Every milliliter of blood seems to drain from my body. I feel like I’m going to faint. The mystery guest just gazes at his shoes, clearly quite ashamed of the fuss.

  “Sorry if I’m causing a fuss, er, Ronnie, is it?” the boy begins, rearranging his baseball cap.

  “WHAT??? ARE YOU!? Er, I MEAN . . . ARE YOU HIM!!! Like, really him?! REALLY SPIKE SAUNDERS!! THE REAL ONE!! OH MY GOD! I can’t believe it??!! You’re Spike Saunders!” I splutter and pant, gazing at a face I see every day in magazines and on TV.

  “ ’Fraid so,” says Spike, then he grins.

  I have GOT to pull myself together: It’s either that, or simply die of shock directly here on the spot. And that’s not cool.

  “But, er, how? And why? Yes, why? Why would this happen? And why are you . . .? And, can I just tell you, Spike, that I loovved your last CD and I play it all the time. Especially when my mum left last week . . . I played ‘Merry Go Round’ continuously for about an hour,” I begin to twitter, realizing that this is now so far away from cool that cool is actually in a distant galaxy.

  So I shut up.

  “Cheers,” says Spike. “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Right!” announces Charlie, scratching his head. “Ronnie, I’m dead sorry, lovey, I should have been straight with you, but this one ’ere always causes a bleeding all-out riot, so we kept schtum.” Charlie takes a deep breath. “For my sins, Ronnie: I am Spike Saunders’ tour manager.”

  “SPIKE SAUNDERS!!!” I shriek. Charlie quickly shoves his hand over my mouth.

  “Shhhhh,” Charlie says. “Likewise, Vinny, Pip and Masher, et cetera, are Spike’s road crew. We’re on our way down to Astlebury, where Spike’s playing next weekend.”

  “I know! I know! You’re headlining the main stage next Saturday night!” I say. “My dad won’t let me go . . .”

  Okay, I have now officially hit rock bottom on the cool stakes. It might be time to show him my period-knickers. It can only improve things.

  “Anyway, we had a few days off before some warm-up gigs next week,” Charlie conti
nues. “So us lads decided to help you girls out.”

  “But I wasn’t allowed to leave the hotel,” moans Spike, who is a lot smaller and thinner than he is on TV but totally gorgeous nevertheless.

  “No, you weren’t, bozo, because it’s not safe for you. Too many teenage girls wanting to rip your trousers off. You, my sunshine, are too expensive an asset for me to get damaged.”

  “Well, I’m here now,” says Spike, slightly sulkily.

  “Indeed you are,” replies Charlie, even more sulkily.

  “Can’t I stay? Please?” pleads Spike. “I’ll keep a low profile. No one will know. I just wanna watch a few bands. I’ll stay with my mate Ronnie ’ere, I’ll say I’m her long-lost cousin from down south.”

  “Oh, go on, Uncle Charlie,” I say. “Let him stay!”

  “Go on, Uncle Charlie!” giggles the one, the only, the legendary number-one pop superstar Spike Saunders, who just—did you notice that?—called me HIS MATE!

  “You kill me, Spike Saunders. You’ll have me in an early grave,” moans Charlie, delving into his pocket and pulling out a pair of extra-dark sunglasses.

  “Okay, you can stay till after the last act. But put these glasses on, and keep ’em on! And if anyone asks either of you, it’s not Spike Saunders, it just looks like Spike Saunders. Got it?”

  “Hurray!” we both cheer.

  “And while you’re here. . . . How did you get into the VIP past Masher with no AAA pass?” quizzes Charlie.

  “Easy.” Spike shrugs, not realizing what he’s starting. “Through that gap in the fence over there. Loads of people are doing it!”

  Charlie pulls out the walkie-talkie again.

  “MASHER, get your bum around here this minute!”

  Cross my heart, I do, for about twenty seconds, intend to keep Spike Saunders’ appearance at Blackwell Live a secret. But precisely then, Fleur, Claude and Masher appear, desperate to find out what the emergency is. Of course, they find “the emergency” standing beside me, grinning his famous devilish grin.

  And to give Spike ultimate credit, he handles meeting the LBD extremely well. Even when Fleur gives him a really tight bear hug and gently sobs onto his shoulder: “Spike! I really love you. No, really. Okay, I bet lots of other girls say that, but I really feel like I know you. And I do love you! I think we’ve got so much in common! I’ve got all your CDs and I’ve got a Wall of Spike in my bedroom. I’m not weird, though. You think I’m weird, don’t you?” Then she asked him to sign the T-bar in the back of her thong.

  Yes, Fleur lost her mind. Big time.

  I’m soooo relieved. Fleur has managed to make me look, by comparison, virtually normal.

  “Spike, will you go on stage and sing a song from the To Hell and Back CD?” Claude chances, her eyes as wide as table-spoons.

  “No, he won’t,” snaps Charlie. “In fact, he’s going back to the hotel right now if we don’t all stick with the original plan. Remember: Spike Saunders is NOT here. This is on a strictly need-to-know basis, no one else needs to know but you.”

  Spike puts on his extra-dark glasses and pulls down his baseball cap. “Am I allowed to watch some bands now?” he says as we slip incognito out of the VIP tent and into the festival crowd, just as the EZ Life Syndicate are bringing the house down, making two thousand people wave their arms in the air from left to right, cheering “Wooo-hoo” at exactly the same time.

  “EZ LIFE SYNDICATE. MAKE SUM NOIZZZE!” shouts Killa Blow as the crowd goes berserk.

  “Pretty impressive stuff, girls!” says Spike as we weave our way unnoticed through the festival mayhem. “I used to mess about at school all the time and cause trouble when I was your age. Not do stuff like this.” He chuckles, clearly a little non plussed.

  “So do we . . . er, usually,” claims Fleur, realizing how totally unfeasible that sounds like now. “Honestly!”

  Spike laughs out loud.

  “Well, we caused some trouble earlier on today, anyway,” illustrates Fleur. “You both missed what happened when Death Knell performed! Myrtle McGraw, the headmaster’s missus, had a bit of an episode.”

  “What happened?” I gasp.

  “Oh, you tell the tale, Fleur,” says Claude.

  “Well, it all began when Ainsley came on stage with that fake blood on his laboratory coat, which, fair enough, was total grimness, but you know what Death Knell are like—”

  “It was fake blood, though,” I persist, “from a joke shop. I saw the bottle.”

  “Hmm, I’m sure you did. I did too. But Myrtle didn’t. So they were halfway through that track of theirs called, er, what sitcalled? ‘The Coffin Song,’ that’s it, and all hell broke loose. Pardon the pun.”

  “Tell us more,” says Spike, riveted by Fleur, who always tells a good yarn.

  “Well, Death Knell brought on this box with a sheet pulled over it. And Ainsley pulls off the sheet during the chorus and it was . . . it was actually a coffin!”

  “A real coffin? How?” I splutter.

  “Don’t ask me how. They’ve kept it hidden from all of us all day. I had no idea they had it, Claude didn’t either. Well, when Myrtle McGraw saw it and realized Ainsley was going to get in the coffin and lie down, she went bananas. Ooh, you could have sold her for ninety pence a kilo, she went ballistic!”

  “Did she try to stop the gig?”

  “Well, she did her best. ‘SATAN IS AMONGST US!’ That’s what she was shouting! ‘Stop this Satanic show!’ She was causing a right scene. I mean, come on, it was only flipping Ainsley Hammond with some joke-shop blood and a coffin loaned from the local amateur dramatics society’s production of Dracula. Lighten up, for Pete’s sake.”

  Spike is laughing so hard, tears are streaming down his face.

  “I’m so glad I came today. You lot have cheered me right up.” He chuckles.

  “So, is she still here?” I ask, looking around.

  “Oh, no, their son Marmaduke had to come in his car and pick her up. She was still grumbling about Satan as they stuffed her into the backseat.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” I complain.

  “Well, kiddo, them’s the breaks,” says Fleur, still jealous that I had Spike all to myself for well over half an hour.

  “So, who’s on next?” Spike asks as we wander nearer the front of the stage, where hundreds of skatey boys and baggy jeaned girls with messy hooded tops and scuffed trainers are gathered. I can’t believe no one has so much as double-checked who our new friend is. I’m hoping people might think it’s my new boyfriend and it gets back to Jimi. Before I can answer Spike, I can hear the unmistakable voice of Paddy and the not-so-soft lilt of Mrs. Guinevere breaking over on the loudspeaker.

  “Give me that microphone. I’m the announcer. Yes, me. I announce the bands. No one said we were taking turns!” argues Paddy, sounding very annoyed.

  “Oh, grow up, I’m doing this one, give me that thing here,” Mrs. Guinevere insists. With a deft pull, she commandeers the mike.

  “Hello, Blackwell Live!” she begins. “It gives me wonderful pride to announce another very talented band. This is Lost Messiah!” But before Guinevere even finishes announcing their name, an explosion of sound rips through the humid summer air, and Aaron, Naz, Danny and Jimi are belting out “Golden Gob” as loud as our PA system will tolerate before melting.

  “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhh!” is Jimi’s opening line.

  “Wahhhhhooooooooo” is his next.

  He’s not big on lyrics, really, is Jimi Steele. Still, something about him beguiles you to watch him every second he’s before you.

  “Excellent frontman,” says Spike, nudging me. “He’s a talented guitarist too. Should go far, these lads. Well, the lead singer will, anyway.”

  “Jimi Steele,” I sigh.

  “Good name for a rock star,” says Spike Saunders. “Not as good as mine, though.” My expression must speak volumes, because Spike is quickly poking my shoulder.

  “Ooh, hello, I think someone is a bit hot
for Lost Messiah’s lead singer. You fancy him, you do.” Spike sniggers as my face goes crimson.

  “She does, but I don’t,” butts in Fleur, clearly thinking she’s in with a chance. Oh, dear. “And I’m single too!”

  “This one’s called ‘Stupid Things,’ ” says Jimi before the Lost Messiah crash into another teeth-shakingly loud number. “And believe me, I’ve done a few of them in my time.” He must be talking about one of his many skateboard accidents, although it seems like a weird thing to write a song about. At the front of the stage Gonzo is trying to dissuade some Year 8 lads from crowd-surfing.

  “Right, I’ve got to go and check on our extra-special headlining act,” announces Claude, vanishing into the cheering crowd. Spike raises an eyebrow.

  “Catwalk,” I explain, exhaling deeply. “Flipping Catwalk.”

  “Catwalk,” sighs Fleur, and then we both stand in mournful silence.

  “I can’t wait! I’m having a great time,” says Spike genuinely.

  “Neither can we,” we lie.

  leaving the best till last

  After what seems like an overly long time since our last act, a thick cloud of dry ice pumps onto the Blackwell Live stage, filling the late-afternoon air with billowing, atmospheric white clouds. The stage is filled with fluffy whiteness, like rolling mist. Catwalk’s rather lame intro music is building momentum: A drum machine flutters on top of repetitive synth chords.

  “It’s time for a Catwalk Nation,” repeats a voice pretentiously again and again. Unmistakably, it is Panama’s. The entire crowd leaps to attention expectantly, pushing forward to enjoy the headline act, some kids climbing onto each other’s shoulders, cheering and beating the sky with their hands in time with the drums. And as the smoke begins to clear and more cymbals crash, I can just detect five silhouettes posing moodily together center stage. Clad in black Lycra tops, rubber catsuits and trousers, each with a silver microphone headset clipped around their faces and far too much makeup, Catwalk stand dead still with their arms and legs held in strange robotic poses, waiting for their cue to begin. The crowd are actually going berserk as the snare drum grows more frantic, then suddenly a loud crash rips through the speakers.