You Don't Know Me (21 page)

I think Rose expects me to mind that she's singing my lyrics and playing my tune. I don't mind at all. She plays so beautifully and sings it better than I ever could. Eventually, she moves from the guitar to the piano, transposing the tune for the keyboard, developing a left-hand bass part to give it a new dimension.

The guitar is sitting there. I pick it up again. The sweetness of playing along to Rose's lead is something I've never experienced before. It's making music; it's what Rose has naturally done all her life. Now I can do it too.

Jim's busy in the control booth, talking to the sound engineer, who's just arrived. Meanwhile, Nell and Jodie
start harmonising over the chorus while we play. Nell films some of the action on my iPhone, but when Rose needs it back for the lyrics, she points at her orange bag and Nell pulls out the smart new tablet. It takes beautiful video. Nell experiments with close-ups and long shots while we each do our part, making the song better with each new version.

Finally, we hit on a mix that we're all happy with. The creative tension that's been building up in the room bubbles and fizzes, like lemonade when you've shaken the bottle. That was, I realise, the most fun I have ever,
ever
had. Including talking to Dan under the stars. Which probably means there's something wrong with me, but whatever. I have to do this again one day. I don't know how, but somehow I must.

‘Sounding good,' Jim calls through to us from the mixing booth. ‘Do you want to do the vocals together?'

‘Why not?' Rose says. ‘Is that OK with you, Sash?'

Like I'd have a problem with recording my song with a number one artist.

We squeeze into the special booth for vocals, standing round the mic to perfect the sound, while the others make faces at us through the glass. In the end, we get it in two takes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About A Boy

I
t's not until the early afternoon that I get the chance to talk to Rose alone. Jim, Nell and Jodie are examining the contents of the fridge in Jim's enormous kitchen, and Sam's talking techno-geek stuff back in the studio with Dave.

Rose and I sit on the kitchen doorstep, where nearby pots of thyme and rosemary fill the air with the scent of herbs, and strolling chickens cluck contentedly in the yard ahead. She seems happy enough to be here, but she definitely looks thinner, close to, and still very pale and drawn.

‘Is there anyone actually looking after you?' I ask.

She yawns, stretching in the sunshine. ‘My aunt pops
by to make sure I'm OK. Gran calls. But the team looks after me, I s'pose. I'm doing those runs. I'm on this special diet . . .'

‘That's exactly what I mean!'

She yawns again. ‘I want to get healthy. But I might be overdoing it,' she admits.

‘And . . .' I hesitate. ‘All that sharing you have to do. In interviews. Talking about personal stuff. I can see you hate it.'

‘Oh God. You watch my interviews?'

‘Every one.'

She shivers ruefully. ‘I hated talking about my parents,' she confesses, pulling at a stray stalk of rosemary and playing with it. ‘But Linus said I had to. It was good that people were interested in me. It's easier now: people talk about the music, mostly. But of course once that new song is out . . .'

‘Yeah.'

She looks at me and smiles. ‘I'll have to lie and say how much I love it. But at least you'll know the truth. I miss times like this, Sash. Times when I can really talk.'

She sniffs at the sprig of rosemary and tickles my nose with it. It smells like Mum's herb bread. But I'm already thinking back to the studio, when Rose played her new song. If we're really talking, there's some more stuff I need to know.

‘Is there something you never told me?' I ask.

‘About what?'

‘About a boy. “Breathless” didn't come from nowhere.'

She avoids my eye. ‘Well, you know, it came from various places. Books and . . . stuff.'

I just don't believe her. Not any more. Songs can come
from many places, but she didn't get those emotions from books – I know it. This was something she lived through, I'm sure.

‘Uh huh. Books. And stuff. And that other song? “The Mistake I Had To Make”, wasn't it?'

She scratches at the gravel with the toe of her shoe and coughs a couple of times to clear her throat. ‘Er . . . '

I try to think through when she could possibly have had such an intense experience of love that I wouldn't have known about. After all, I saw her practically every day until the fateful Killer Act audition, apart from . . .

Yes! When I was away. With Dad.

‘Last summer,' I say. ‘Did something happen then?'

She winces, as if in pain. ‘It was a long time ago. It was nothing.'

‘I thought we were talking.'

She gives a long sigh and waves a hand about, as if to wave the memory away.

‘OK. It was just . . . a mistake. A bad mistake. I was stupid. He had a girlfriend. It lasted six weeks, that's all. It was a mess. Like I said, it was nothing.'

It was
so
not ‘nothing'. As she fiddles with the poor stalk of rosemary, the misery of that memory is etched in every line of her face. It's still there, still raw.

‘Oh, Rose. I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be sorry. I don't want people being sorry for me. Not even you, Sash.'

‘Who was he? Someone I know?'

She shakes her head. ‘No one you know. Look, it was a stupid holiday romance and I took it too seriously. First love. I'm an idiot. But I got a bunch of songs out of it, so . . . hey!' She gives me a weak smile. ‘Can we talk about
something else?'

‘OK.'

I'm still thinking of what that might be when a loud, shrill voice fills the kitchen.

‘Rose! Rose! Rose Ireland?'

Rose flinches, guiltily. We turn round to see a small, thin blonde girl in a shorts and a T-shirt storm into the room. She stops briefly to say a polite hello to Jim, who's casually making a salad for lunch, then homes in on the pair of us in the doorway.

‘Rose! There you are! I've been looking for you all day. Are you OK?'

Rose smiles. ‘Absolutely fine.'

‘Why didn't you tell anyone you were here?'

‘Because I was supposed to be here,' Rose stammers. ‘It was on the schedule.'

The girl flaps her hand in front of her face, as if to calm herself down from a panic. ‘Well, you didn't tell your driver, so we didn't know you'd come. We've been searching the grounds for you for, like,
hours
. I thought you'd had some accident or something. Then the costume designer's assistant arrived to talk about the tour, and she's been waiting, like, forever. I brought the car. If we shift, we can catch her before she goes, like, home.'

She whips a BlackBerry out of her handbag and starts typing rapidly on the screen.

‘These are my friends,' Rose says, although the girl hasn't shown the slightest interest in us. ‘Sasha, this is Elsa.'

‘Hi,' Elsa says, not looking up from her phone screen until she's finished tapping.

Elsa – the manager of Rose's Interface page, her
FaceFeed and her phone. No doubt whatever she's typing in now is an insult to spelling and grammar. So this is the girl who ‘is' Rose online. The thought of it makes me feel ill.

‘There. I've told them I've found you,' she announces. ‘Sorry, Mr Fisher. I can bring her back later, but this meeting is, like, don't miss. You know what I mean?'

‘What about her friends?' Jim asks.

‘Who? Oh, them. They'll have to see her another time,' Elsa says, casting a rapid glance over Nell, Jodie and me. ‘If they call me I can fix something.'

‘We already did,' Jodie says, not missing a beat. ‘Or at least, we called Rose. Did you forget to pass the message on?'

Elsa ignores the dangerous edge to Jodie's voice.

‘But it can't be this week, because we're back to London in two days, and then we've got more costumes and tour dates to sort out, and the ad to finish, and a slimming magazine. Everyone wants to know how Rose lost those pesky pounds! C'mon, Rose. I brought some water for you to drink in the car.'

Elsa holds her hand out. Rose glances wistfully at the salad, bread and cheeses being assembled on the kitchen counters. It's not surprising her ‘attractively curvy' figure is rapidly disappearing. Rose hugs us all briefly goodbye, and heads off towards the waiting limo.

‘Living the dream,' Jodie calls after her with a sardonic wave.

The car disappears down the driveway in a spray of gravel.

Living the dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So Not Over Her

T
he thing is, the rest of us
are
living one – or at least, we just did for one morning and part of the afternoon. It still feels dream-like as Sam drives us home through the lazy late spring sunshine, and we remember how Jim had to leave us for ten minutes over lunch so he could talk to David Bowie about something on the phone.

We make a pact not to talk about it with anyone else. Only Sam has a problem with this.

‘How can I not tell my mates I actually played guitar with Jim Fisher?'

‘It was only the first two bars of “Smoke on the Water” and one of them was wrong,' Jodie snorts. ‘And besides, what happened was . . . special. Just for us.'

‘Yes,' Nell agrees. ‘The whole idea was to keep our heads down, remember?'

With a grumble, Sam gives in. He drops Nell and Jodie off at my place, because Mum was experimenting with pistachio cake recipes for the café yesterday, and I happen to know there are a lot of samples that need eating up. Poor Rose; she loves pistachios. We're in the middle of thirds when my phone goes. It's Dan.

‘Sorry not to see you today. Look, Ed got some tickets for a gig in Bristol tonight. It's a band from the uni who're supposed to be pretty good. Do you want to come?'

Oh my God. What is happening to me? I was thinking – on my second slice of pistachio cake – that my perfect day couldn't get more perfect, and now it just did. Dan is totally inviting me out. This is a real date. What else could you call it? I try and play it cool.

‘Right. Sure. I'll just see if I'm doing anything.'

While he's listening, I tell Nell and Jodie about the gig and ‘check I'm free', to make myself sound to Dan like a girl with a massive social life who needs to juggle. Major mistake. Nell and Jodie's expressions mirror each other exactly. They go from ‘Oh wow you got a date!' to ‘Ooh – a gig, that sounds cool,' to ‘Aw – can we come?' with accompanying puppy eyes, all in the space of about three seconds.

‘No, you can't,' I mouth to them crossly.

‘Is there a problem?' Dan asks, sensing one.

‘No, it's just my friends being difficult.'

‘They can come too. Are they the ones from the band?
Ed and Raj have been dying to meet them.'

‘Yes, they are,' I sigh, glaring at Nell and Jodie, who are still doing their puppy eyes.

‘No problem. The boys'll be pleased. We can give you a lift. Pick you up at eight?'

‘Sure. Thanks.'

‘Yes!' Jodie shouts as soon as I've ended the call. ‘A gig! Just what I feel like. Now, what are we going to wear?'

A couple of hours later they're back at my place, armed with major wardrobe ideas, so we can all get ready together. It's almost like the old days: the iPod jammed into the speakers at full volume, a playlist of Abba and Girls Aloud, jostling at the mirror to perfect our makeup and strutting around in various outfits. In the end, Jodie goes for her usual lumberjack shirt, but matched tonight with black shorts and fishnets disappearing into ankle boots, and we agree Nell looks fantastic in psychedelic flowery skinnies and a grey sequinned top that matches her eyes. I go for a simple, short lace dress. Very short, actually, but very demure at the top. With Nell's help, I hold some of my hair off my face with clips decorated with little stars.

All the time, Rose's absence hovers around us like a hole in the air. It's not the same without her perfecting her cat's-eye eyeliner flicks, doing something unfortunate to her hair, then regretting it and changing it. Still, we've had more time together today than I ever thought we would. The buzz of that memory gives the evening a special, secret glow.

The Call of Duty lot turn up in convoy to pick us up: Ed
in the Land Rover, as usual, with Dan beside him and Cat in the back; Raj leaping out of his battered old Polo, eagerly holding the door open for Nell and Jodie, his eyes practically popping out of his head at the sight of Nell in her skinnies. In the back of the Land Rover, Cat eyes me with wary contempt. She's in a short dress too – black leather and sleeveless, with a cut-out design, far more expensive than mine.

‘You look tired,' she says.

I probably do, under my makeup. At six-thirty this morning I was dressing as a chambermaid, ready to ambush a major new recording artist. Was that really only this morning?

‘Yeah, it's been a busy day,' I grin.

‘Oh, what happened?' Dan asks.

‘Sorry. Can't talk about it.'

I have his full attention after that. Maybe it's being a woman of mystery (because I stick to the pact and don't say anything), or maybe it's just the left-over buzz from being in the studio . . . Maybe it's just that the time is right. Something is brewing between Dan and me. Something exciting and unspoken, following on – belatedly, perhaps – from our talk under the stars. Dan knows it, and so do I.

The gig is hot, sweaty, overcrowded, chaotic and fabulous. They run out of beer and soft drinks early on and we're reduced to drinking water from the taps in the ladies' loos. It doesn't matter. The band is brilliant: better than Call of Duty, better than us, better than loads of acts in the charts. They deserve a recording contract. Dan says the rumour is that there's a couple of record company scouts
in the audience tonight, which may be why they're putting on such an inspired performance. The style is sort of indie-folk-punk, with a tiny girl at the front roaring out the words and holding it all together with her magnetic stage presence.

When she lingers on the high notes, her voice has the same honey warmth as Ella Fitzgerald. Yet again, I wish Rose was here, because she's the only person I could explain this to. However, Dan's right behind me, moving to the music. That feels pretty good too.

Cat watches us all the time. The closer Dan gets to me, the more she tries to get his attention, asking for drinks, asking what time it is, reminding him of songs they've played together. Dan simply ignores her most of the time. In the end, she grabs his elbow and says she's not feeling well. She needs to get home but she doesn't have enough money for the taxi.

I sigh to myself. As a ploy, this is brilliant. Gentleman Dan – it's the perfect way to grab his attention. Presumably we'll have to end the evening now. But, when he looks at her his jaw is set, his eyes are angry. He's not stupid and she's finally exhausted his patience.

‘Really?'

Surprised by the strength of his reaction, Cat wavers, hesitates.

‘It's OK,' she says. ‘Don't worry.'

‘No, you're obviously not well,' he snaps. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and gives her all his spare money. ‘Here. This'll cover the taxi. I'll help you get one.'

He goes out, and Cat can't help but follow. When he comes back, he's alone.

‘She'll be fine,' he says. ‘They use that cab firm all the time.
I told her to call us to let us know she got home safely.'

Poor Cat. Stuck in a taxi, in her tight leather dress, far away from Dan and me. The exact opposite of the effect she wanted. Without her, Dan is visibly more relaxed. He puts his hands on my hips as we dance to the music. I wish all nights could be like this.

The band plays its final number and it's time to go home. Nell offers to go with Raj in his beaten-up Polo. Ed offers to drive the rest of us in the Land Rover, and makes a point of asking Jodie if she'd like to travel beside him, so she can show him the way to her house. Which leaves Dan and me to climb in the back together. I don't say anything, but I light up like a beacon inside.

As soon as we're moving, Jodie starts fiddling with the radio, searching for a station she likes. Soon we're all singing along to Bruno Mars. Dan casually puts his arm over the back of the seat, so his hand is resting near my shoulder. The fact that we're both pretending that nothing's happening makes it better still.

Now it's Girls Aloud on the radio.

‘God!' Ed groans, ‘Radio South West will play anything.'

‘We love this one!' Jodie protests. ‘We were singing it this evening. Turn it up, Ed.'

He does. We sing along raucously, except for Ed, who's laughing, and Dan, who isn't concentrating on the music. I can feel his warm breath against my neck, and the heat of his body next to mine. Even though the strongest thing I've had all day was Jim's coffee, I feel as if I've been injected with powerful happy-making drugs, and they
make me want to hug the world.

‘Something kinda OOOOH!' I sing, keeping up with Jodie in the front, and trying to keep the grin off my face. When Ed takes a corner too quickly, Dan's thrown against me. Somehow, when he straightens up, he's still just as close. When I turn slightly to look at him, his eyes are half closed. I stop singing, and stay with my face turned towards him. He moves his lips towards me, slowly, slowly.

‘And now for something a bit different,' the radio DJ says. ‘You know the one. You've heard it a million times already.'

There are four chords, and a small sigh. Then Rose starts to sing the famous opening lines of ‘Breathless'.

Oh no no no. Not Rose now. Not that song. Every time I hear it, I picture #dropthefatgirl trending on FaceFeed. I freeze.

Dan freezes too. He leans away from me, with pain in his eyes. Then he rescues his arm from behind me and looks out of the window, breathing fast.

‘God! Not again!' Ed shouts. ‘Not bloody “Breathless”. That has to be the biggest breakup song in the world. We were having fun here!' He starts punching buttons to change the station.

The radio burbles classical music, then the news, then a talk show about whether or not to vaccinate badgers.

Badgers? I don't care about badgers. Dan and I are still frozen in the back. Was it me? Did I just ruin the moment?

Whatever it was, it's over. When Ed eventually manages to find some smooth late-night music, it's far too late. Dan's staring at the passing countryside, pretending I
don't exist. I'm wishing I didn't. I notice Ed flick his eyes at me in the driving mirror, and they crinkle with concern at the corners when he sees me sitting ramrod straight, a foot away from this brother, clutching my knees.

Jodie remains oblivious to it all, humming to herself in the front seat until Ed finally pulls up outside her house. She waves us all a cheerful goodbye. The next seven minutes, as Ed negotiates the country lanes from her place to mine, are pure purgatory.

‘Thanks for a great evening,' I say dutifully, as Dan leaps out of the Land Rover like a scalded cat so I can get past him without having to touch him in any way.

‘Yeah . . . great,' Ed mutters, without much enthusiasm, watching us both.

Dan, Gentleman Dan, gives me a short nod, which will have to do as goodbye.

This time, Ed chooses to walk me across the silent, still road to my house. Standing in the porchlight, he says, ‘Sorry about that.'

‘You saw?'

‘Yeah. He, er, he had a bad breakup last summer. I thought he was OK now. Maybe not.'

Yes. I nod but I can't bring myself to speak. It all makes sense now: the nearness without touching, the kisses that never quite happened, the feeling that he was holding something back . . .

But there was something I missed.

At four in the morning the final piece of the puzzle slots into place. I must have been asleep, because I wake up in bed with a start, cold but sweating, and suddenly it's clear.

It wasn't just the words of ‘Breathless' that reminded Dan of his breakup: it was the voice that sang them. Because of course, I've just been talking to a girl who went through a breakup last summer. A breakup so bad she wrote a number one song about it. And she comes from the same part of the middle of nowhere as he does. It can't be a coincidence.

Dan's secret ex-girlfriend is my ex-best friend. And he is So. Not. Over. Her.