‘Do you think everyone saw?’ she asks.
‘Oh yes, everyone saw and everyone heard and everyone was shocked, frankly.’
‘Great.’
Again, I give up: truly, honestly, deeply, I do.
Super Saturday
I’m spending the whole of Saturday at the television studio with Ten Guitars. That way I can deal with any fan-based issues. It’s SO totes awesome that I can’t sleep a wink. Well, who could? A person made of stone, maybe, but not the flesh-and-blood wreck that is presently masquerading as Jenny Q. Maybe I’m getting like my mum, who is now a less substantial replica of her former self.*
We are leaving v early, as we have to be at the studio at 8.30 a.m., so I reckon I am safe from Dixie’s style plans. But, oh, how wrong I am. At 7 a.m. Dixie is at the door with all sorts of hair paraphernalia.
‘Stylist to the stars,’ Dad says, and Dixie goes all giggly. He has an effect on her that I just do not understand. The guy is old and he’s, er, my dad, so everything about this situation is unacceptable. She calls him DOUG,† for freaksake!
She is briefly distracted by coffee and toast, then it’s down to business. Dixie hauls me up the stairs to my room and plonks me on the stool in front of my make-up table/vanity-type place/desk with a mirror above it thingy. I look at it with new eyes and finally realize what a dangerous situation I’m in. What if Dixie decides she wants to apply some make-up too? It’s so early still and there are so many pens and pencils on my desk/vanity ‘unit’ that she could reach out, grab a marker (permanent or non-permo, doesn’t matter in this scenario) and then she’ll mark me up like a clown.
‘I have decided that you need to make the most of your curls,’ she says.
I normally try to straighten out the rampant kink in my hair and it takes time, effort and quite a lot of product.‡
‘I’m guessing objections are futile,’ I squeak.
‘Totes.’
‘Urp!’
She takes out a diffuser, attaches it to the hairdryer and we’re off. I cannot bear to look in the mirror while it’s all happening before my eyes so I keep them shut. She fluffs and primps and sighs and then goes, ‘Ta dah!’ so it’s time to check out the carnage.
Strange to relate, the result is quite nice. My hair looks soft and shiny and the curls are cute.б
‘Let’s do a fluffski, spray, then pop on your nice navy headband with the flowers. A slick of lip gloss is all you need make-up-wise at this hour. And when you get out of those hid.eee.us pyjamas and into your nice gúna,§ we are READY.’
I struggle into my clothage, trying not to muzz up my ’do, and when I am ‘prête’ (according to Dixie), she sprays me liberally with dewberry eau-de-something and says, ‘Not bad, actually. Will do.’
I look, well, OK = hooray!
‘I am rageballs I’m not going,’ Dix tells me. ‘I could so use this day to get a fabulous significant other.’
‘Le sigh,’ I say, nodding in support.
‘Full textage throughout the proceedings and a debrief tomoz, yeah?’
‘Totes.’
‘And remember: I’ll be watching it live on TV, so I’ll know if you’re ignoring me, or even lying.’
‘I hear you.’
‘Good. Plus I know where you live and I can hunt you down if I have to. You know I can.’
‘I do.’ (And I do! I so do!)
‘All correcto, so. I’m off back to bed. Laters.’
‘Tayters.’
You might have thought that was the end of pals at this hour, but you would be wrong. We go downstairs just as Uggs and Gypsy arrive.
‘We wanted to wish everyone good luck and all that.’
Gypsy barks and does a funny little running-around-in-circles thing.
‘She loves the look,’ Uggs tells me.
‘Dixie Purvis to the rescue,’ Dix declares, with a martyred face that says she had to give it her ALL.
‘Er, hello, I didn’t think I was that much of a heap,’ I say.
Gypsy barks, Uggs tries to say, ‘You’re not,’ and Dermot comes barrelling out with, ‘We’ll be left behind if we don’t get our sorry butts to the school PRONTO.’
I check I have all I need (a large bag of pens, stationery and phone) and CHECK/TICK all is there.
‘Jen, where’s my guitar?’ Dermot wants to know.
‘Wherever you left it last,’ I say factually.
‘Sheesh, attitude,’ he says. ‘At this hour?’
He raises his eyes to heaven and my Bestests nod in sympathy. WHAT??? He is the one being El Divo, not me. My job is Fan Club Liaison Officer, not skivvy to the star.
We go into the kitchen in search of the errant instrument, without which, let’s face it, Ten Guitars will be less than ten.
Mum is nursing Harry at the table. She takes one look at me and bursts into tears. Jeepers, that bad!
Dad says, ‘Jen, you look really lovely.’
‘Nice try, but clearly not,’ I say, indicating Mum as my proof.
I’m only hoping Harry doesn’t pick up on her palpable horror at my appearance, because him crying will break/shred us.**
‘No, no, Jen,’ Mum blubbers. ‘I’m just so happy!’
Er, right. That would be why you just started crying? This is definitely turning into something to worry over.
It’s not even 8 a.m. and already I am WRECKED.
Savage Saturday
Dad drives* us to Oakdale High School, Place of Dreams,† and our rendezvous for the transport to the show venue. A little crowd of well-wishers has gathered to see the band off, and I find that madly touching. I feel myself well up a bit, so maybe I can understand Mum crying because she’s happy,‡ strange as that is.
Gary O’Brien is fist-bumping friends and fans alike and generally grinning from ear to dorky ear. Most of the group seems to be assembled, which is a relief: keeping track of ten adolescent guys is a specific kind of chore. Stevie Lee is lurking in a doorway chatting with the Slinkies, so my heart sinks a tad at that. He sees us arrive and waves, though it’s probably to Dermot and not me. I smile anyhow, then try to look all efficient. They start to make their way over.
‘Good luck,’ Dad says. ‘Break a leg, but not any guitar strings.’
Dermot gives him a wan grin for his efforts at humour.
‘We’ll be glued to it and we’ll record it for you to watch later. And, of course, we’ll be voting early and often.’
Oooh, this is it. I’ve got to get out and into the elements and I am not looking forward to what the rain may do to my hair. It tends to fuzzy it up and, today of all days, I don’t want to look like a dandelion head (seeds or flower) now that my head is au naturel …
I put up my transparent umbrellaб and it captures the wind and drags me to the bus.
There is a stern woman with a clipboard trying her best to marshal everyone on board. Just as we’re about to get on, Samantha Slinky throws herself at Dermot, smothering him in kisses for luck. You’d think he was off to war, not a talent show! Although I suppose it is our very own Star Wars? Anyhow, it’s well embarrassimundo. Even Dermot looks askance.§
The Slinkies give SLB pecks on the cheek and he gets on the bus and passes by to go and sit towards the back. At my seat he leans over and says:
‘Mmm, you smell great. Don’t know whether to breathe in or take a little nibble out of you.’ Then he flashes his legendary smile and I am sure I’ll faint. I reach for my bag on the floor, which is really an opportunity to get my head between my legs in the recovery position and breathe steadily till the dizziness passes.
The passengers are quite quiet, just
chatting among themselves. There’s a slight air of apprehension, I think. The bus is buffeted by wind, and the swish of the tyres on the rain-sodden road and the windscreen wipers working fast are the main sounds inside the bus. Out of nowhere Gary O’Brien plonks himself beside me.
‘Sister Jen!’ is his greeting.
Suddenly I feel that my dress might be nun-like, thus provoking his outburst, and I get agitated.
‘Gary,’ I acknowledge (for it is he).
‘Looking forward to the day?’
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Affirmative. Though I’m nervy too. Hope I don’t faint like that little girl did during the Dublin tryouts.’
My heart freezes over. Everything goes into slow motion. The air is sucked out of the bus. A red-alert ringing noise fills my head. I cannot breathe. My face boils.
I was that ‘little girl’!!!
I have been blocking the memory from my mind, but now that it’s back, my life is over. It dawns on me things are worse than I ever could have imagined – WHAT IF SOMEONE WORKING ON THE SHOW RECOGNIZES ME? This situation could SO not be worse even if it tried. I’m hyperventilating now, though trying to cover it up as a mild cough. My heart is banging so hard against my ribs it feels like it will burst out through them.
Here’s what happened. I wanted to try out, singing, for Teen Factor X. I didn’t tell the Gang till it was v late on (to avoid mockery) and there was tension over that. No one else knew of my (stupid) plan. On the day of the auditions I got overwhelmed and fainted as I walked through the door to the judges’ room, but it wasn’t shown clearly on TV because Dixie came to my rescue and forbade the use of the footage. BUT they showed enough for the country to know someone had keeled over … ME!!!
How could I not have thought of the consequences further along in time? Turning up with the lads today puts me directly in line to be seen and recognized. There are no words to cover the horror. This is by far the worst thing that has ever happened to me. It is a CATASTROPHE!
Sinking Saturday
There are photographers flashing cameras at the Guitars as they disembark from the bus at the venue, a place I am fast wanting to call the TERMINUS, as it may be the END of my life, career, breathing, etc. I’m clearly not a member of the group so no one is interested in taking my picture.* I am careful to keep my head down all the same. Now I wish my umbrella wasn’t see-through but made of the thickest, darkest material ever to hide me from the world entirely. I can feel tears bubbling up in my eyes, but I’m hoping that it looks like the rain has wet my face. It’s like I’m drowning, though I am walking on the ground. I have never felt so bad. My heart is in bits. I wish Uggs and Dixie were here. Even Gypsy would do.†
As there is no alternative JQ plan, I text my mates for support.
ME: V v bad here = wot if sum1 recogs me frm wen I fainted in trials?!?!
Their replies explain a lot about them both, as people and pals …
DIXIE: is poss bt jst deny
UGGS: nah, wont hap, relax, enjoy!
ME: mite die of stress …
DIXIE: u probly wont, fear not
UGGS: DON’T!
DIXIE: am I missing much hottie action?
A girl with dyed, deep-red hair is allocated to us as a group.
‘Oh, hi!’ she says in greeting. ‘Another red head. Great! I’m Mel.’ She has a lovely smile.
‘Jenny,’ I say, patting my hair (a lil) self-consciously. ‘I’m looking after the fan side of things for the band.’
‘FABringtons. I’ve got lots to offload on you. PeeLENTy to keep you occupied.’
I’m glad to hear it. I need to hide and stay v v busy. I also really like Mel, immediately. It’s like she accepts me, no questions, and that’s good.
‘I’m a runner here at the show, which basically means I really do run around a lot doing things for people, usually what they don’t want to do themselves, so if something goes wrong, I get the blame too.’ She laughs at this and it’s a nice, musical sound.
She gathers the Guitars and leads them to a big dressing room.
‘Guys, this is yours for the day. It’s the one Jedward use when they do a gig here. And One Direction are next in, after you, when they do their Dublin gig. I have ID for you all. I’d appreciate it if you try to stay together, because there’ll be a lot of travel over and back to the stage area for rehearsals and so on. We’re on a strict timetable, so there’s no leeway for getting lost or going missing. Time is precious.’
The lads are only just about paying attention, because all along the length of one wall is a table groaning with food. Cereals, fruit, croissants and Danish pastries = bliss! They are all drawn to the feast and, as long as the table is laden all day, the show organizers will have no problem keeping them together and in one place. The way to manipulate these guys is deffo through their stomachs.
‘That girl is seriously hot,’ one of the Guitars is reporting to another, surreptitiously.
‘Serio-ly true.’
‘Believe, bro,’ GOB says, as he stuffs his gob.
Mel is a hit. I want to be her, no doubt about that. She has a ‘look’ and is chic and cool and a role model/icon-type. Girl crush, even. The Slinkies look like country cousins by comparison.‡
So what’s she got? Well, a v cool nose stud for starters – not EVEN a stud but a lil diamond. Now, it has to be said that she’s at LEAST twenty-one, so she’s old, but she can still carry funky. Her gear is all sparkly, with a colourful 1950s-style petticoat lifting out her skirt above some groovy fishnet tights. She’s wearing purple Doc Martens, so RESPECT and wow! Her pens are all stuck in her hair. Her nails are painted a v dark red and her lippy matches them. I feel prissy and a frump beside her. I am in neat little pumps, thick tights and my dress has a collar, for frippsake. I am Miss Prim, Miss Proper.
Best of all things about Mel, if you ask me right now, is that she is NOT ME. So, I wouldn’t mind being her, as a result. I’d love to be her now or any other time, TBH, due to her greatness.
Oh, and … Mel has a ring on every finger (including thumbs) and possibly bells on her toes!б She shall have music wherever she goes, certainly today, with Ten Guitars in her charge.
She gets everyone’s attention by saying, ‘You’re on first, by the way, because you’re the most complicated act.’
BY THE WAY?! This is big news, not just BTW.
You could hear a pin drop in this room, then the actual sound of Gary actually dropping a bowl of Rice Krispies and going, ‘SHIZZ! Milk everywhere, and it really honks when it goes off – sorry, guys.’
‘Could be the edge we need,’ Dermot mutters, drily, and I have to love my bro just then because it lifts me and I give an out-loud honk of laughter. I am glad he’s here.
As it happens, Stevie Lee is on the other side of Dermot giving a nice, appreciative laugh too = not bad company to be in.
The Dork is now on all fours trying to clean up his mess. He seems to be collecting each Rice Krispie individually and putting it back into his bowl. He’s going to be some time, so.
Stewdio
It’s SO hot in the auditorium, which is made into an impromptu studio for the day. The show will go out live on television tonight, so everything has been set up to suit that. There are blazing lights everywhere and no air coming in that I can detect. It’s also SO exciting, though, so no one cares if they melt. The guys are introduced to everyone and I doubt if they remember even one name that’s hurled at them. The presenter, Margo Frisby, is v v glam on TV, but right now she’s in a tracksuit looking tired and hassled. Someone is obvs talking into her earpiece and she doesn’t look v pleased wi
th what she’s hearing. I decide to sit in the audience seats for the rehearsal and it feels good to be able to hide away in the dark, safe.
I take a sneaky pic of Margo and send it to the Gang.
DIXIE: URGH! Margo lukin ruff
ME: Yup. Gr8, eh?
DIXIE: v much so
UGGS: Margo has let herself go!
ME: tee hee
Everything is stop-start with the Guitars’ rehearsal so that the camera shots and sound levels can be decided. There is one brillo camera that swings around the ceiling of the auditorium and does circular shots, zooming in and out on the group. It’s super for me to be able to gaze at Stevie Lee without looking like I’m staring. The camera just loves him. Weirdly, the Dork looks quite good on screen too.
It takes ages to get everything nailed down, but it’s all so new and fascinating that it doesn’t seem like a chore for any of the lads. They have to go through their song, painstakingly, with moves, because the sound department has so many of them to get a microphone on to. There’s a small army from that department dashing about and sighing and throwing their hands in the air. I get the distinct impression that the camera people are enjoying all the hard work their colleagues have to do, and they all look like they have a tiny grin at the corner of their mouth. There is a floor manager marshalling everyone, and he is fascinating to watch and listen to. He looks v cool in his head-cans and a tiny mike round in front of his mouth to talk to the control room. I think that would be a job I’d like.
Mel plonks down beside me, taking a nanosecond out from her running. I float my theory that everyone is secretly enjoying the sound department’s hassle and she grins widely.
‘They love to fuss and they are being drama queens today, with such a big group, BUT they are also great at their jobs, so I’m pretty sure they enjoy showing that off too.’
When everyone is (nearly) satisfied that they have cracked the beast, they all go through the number again in one go and that’s it, the Guitars are off and the next act is wheeled on. There’ll be a full show dress rehearsal in the afternoon.
Jenny Q, Unravelled! Page 6
