You Don't Know Me (25 page)

‘Why, that's
terrible
, Mr Jenks.'

‘It must be
awful
for you. What could have happened, do you think?'

‘The video was on our band page – look – but how could it
possibly
have got into your system? I mean, you must have the most amazing security, right? Otherwise, nobody would ever use Interface, would they? They'd never put all their personal stuff up there.'

‘Well, that's true,' Ivan acknowledges to Jodie, gruffly. ‘We weren't
hacked
, obviously. It must have been some mistake with the engineers. A glitch. We'll be looking into it.'

‘Oh, good luck,' Jodie tells him, with her TOTALLY SINCERE face on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunglasses

N
ext day, at Jodie's, Elliot explains why he hacked the song.

‘It was kind of Sam's idea,' he admits. ‘He said Rose told you she hated the official one. And he told me about this great song you did together in the studio. I watched it on your band page. Then Interface did that whole thing about moving schools. I thought they needed a lesson.'

‘So you just casually hacked into their system and swapped the videos?'

He tuts at me. ‘Not casually, Sasha. It took days of work. And a friend at their HQ who's not too happy about some of the stuff they do. But it was beautiful,
wasn't it? I like to think of it as art.'

‘Beautiful,' I agree. ‘But just . . . don't do it again, Elliot, please? You'll get arrested.'

‘Yeah,' he sighs. ‘Maybe. I think that might have been my finest hour. A billion devices!' He grins.

It was only available for two and a half minutes, but suddenly everyone's talking about it. Funnily enough, it was the fact that the song disappeared so fast that makes it so popular. People keep saying ‘Oh, you should have heard it, it was amazing.' Then they try and find the link to it on our band page – until the page crashes under the pressure, after half a million views.

Dad calls from Vegas to tell me it's just like when they first played Elvis on the radio and people rang in to beg for more. Dad calls quite a lot, actually, to tell me how many hits ‘You Don't Know Me' is getting (as if I don't already know), and to sing me his Elvis version of it down the line. It's surprisingly good.

It's Elliot who tells me I should put the song on iTunes, and shows me how to do it. It's easier than I thought, and once it's up there it sells ten thousand copies.

A
day.

Every day. For three weeks. Which is not quite enough to take it to number one, but it's still five times more than ‘Living the Dream: the Official Download', as Elliot often reminds me with delight.

It's enough to make a lot of money. Enough to get me noticed by two record labels. Enough to make me certain that songwriting is what I want to do.

Rose ignores everything the management team told her, and uses her page to tell the world how much our
friendship means to her. At first, some of her fans try to talk her out of it, but eventually, watching the video and reading her comments online, they start to understand.

Slowly at first, but in increasing numbers, we start to get more fans of our own. Not people who just like our page, but people who want to share something with us. This is different from ‘the one in the kilt has great legs'. It's sharing something precious, something important.

Jodie's busy with the school play and Nell's smothered with science revision. Rose is on tour, but I take the time to answer as many of them as I can.

The strangest effect of all is that lots of the people visiting our page to find out about ‘You Don't Know Me' end up seeing ‘Sunglasses' too. Our silly, funny song about a messed-up relationship is viewed so often we release that on iTunes as well. It seems there are thousands of girls who love to dress up and be crazy. Who aren't necessarily cool, and don't necessarily care. They send us pictures of
themselves in comedy glasses, boas and silly outfits. They do take-off videos of their own, which are fabulous. They proudly call themselves freaks and losers, and they don't care. Just like we don't, any more. I use one of the pictures they send as the new screensaver on my phone: four girls in sequins and spangles, laughing.

One day in June, on my way out of a Maths exam I spot Michelle Lee waiting by the school gates, looking out for someone. As usual whenever I see her, I put my head down, but it turns out it's me she's looking for.

She is super, hyper embarrassed about having to do it, though, and having caught my attention, she addresses all conversation to my toes.

‘Er, look, Sasha. My uncle's the guy who runs the Bigelow Music Festival. You probably knew that.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Well, he is. And anyway, he was wondering . . . He wanted me to ask you . . . 'Cause you don't seem to have a manager he can call . . . Would you be interested in doing it?'

‘Doing what?'

‘The festival. The programme's sorted, but he can make space for you, because of the, er . . . you know . . . hit. I know you haven't got a band, but,' she rolls her eyes and swallows, ‘Jim Fisher's a friend of my uncle's, and he's getting some guys together for a set, and they've offered to let you guys guest if you wanted. He asked Rose, of course, but she's busy.'

‘Of course. Well, sure, we could think about it.'

Rose is always busy. I think she's playing at the White House around then. I suppose I could be insulted that
we're second choice after her, but, hello? The Bigelow Music Festival? Of course we'll do it. However, it's nice to make Michelle sweat a little first. She did threaten to kill me, after all.

‘So anyway,' Michelle mutters in the direction of my ankles, ‘you could do that “Sunglasses” thing of yours, and the new song, and anything else you've got that's, er, good. Once you've done the Bigelow Festival it's, er . . . useful. For your CV.'

She grinds to a halt, wincing with the strain of asking. In fact, she looks as if she'd rather die. I hope her uncle doesn't get her to do all his bookings for him.

‘I'll have to check with Nell and Jodie,' I tell her.

‘OK. Whatever.'

But I don't really. I know already what they'll say.

For four weeks, we practise. Once exams are over, we spend our free time at Jim's place, working in the studio with Jim and whoever's available from his eclectic list of bandmates. They're all old hands, who've been playing for decades, so they're instantly brilliant at picking up the songs. It's more about us getting good enough to keep up with them. We do ‘Sunglasses' and ‘You Don't Know Me', and two of Jim's old songs from the Eighties that we already know by heart.

Now I understand completely why Rose put up with the stupid diet, and being made to talk about her parents, and Elsa, and everything else that Linus threw at her. If you can get to do this, even a little bit, you'd put up with anything. I can't quite believe I have Michelle Lee to thank for this chance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breathless Boy

O
n the Friday of the festival, it chucks it down with rain all day, forcing everyone to wander round in shorts and wellies. Typical Somerset July weather, in fact. But the Saturday dawns cloudless and beautiful. The site is set into the bowl of hills beyond the town, with pink and blue flags fluttering above a series of big music marquees, while little festival-goer tents cluster around the edges, dotting the hills with colour. We've been going for years, but never on a day quite as perfect as this.

Nell's dad arrives to pick me up in the ‘band taxi', with Nell and Jodie already in the back. Mum will meet us there. The festival is always a busy time for her. There's a cake stall in the ‘Sweet Treats' area that sells as many
cupcakes as she can physically make.

We drive down the familiar lanes, skimming overhanging hedgerows, past the station and round the edge of Castle Bigelow, towards the main festival entrance and then, beyond it, down a track we've never used before. We're following signs marked ‘Artists'. Every time I see one, it makes me smile.

Our set is not until the evening, timed to coincide with sunset. Jim and his bandmates won't be here until later, but we wanted to make the most of the day. When we arrive, instead of having to queue for ages as usual, we're whisked to a smart, carpet-lined Portakabin, where a keen volunteer (who I recognise as last year's head boy from St Christopher's) gives our special, gold-rimmed backstage passes.

‘I am so getting this framed,' Jodie mutters on the way out, marvelling at hers.

I agree. I'm already wondering where in my bedroom to put mine. Or maybe I'll just wear it all the time.

The backstage area has its own tents for artists to get changed and eat, plug in computers and generally hang out. Wherever I look there are people I recognise from gigs and previous festivals, favourite records and even the charts. The Bigelow Festival isn't big, but it's friendly and bands like to play here.

I can't believe we're really doing this.

‘Something's going to go wrong,' Jodie says, still mesmerised by her golden pass. ‘I mean, it's got to, right?'

I suppose it has, but I can't think what, apart from sunstroke. There is still not a single cloud in the sky. The sun's getting hotter by the minute.

We head down the passageway to the main part of the
festival, and out into the riot of colour that Bigelow festival-goers always create – by what they wear, and sell, and the huge festival flags they carry.

‘Can't we just enjoy it?' Nell begs. ‘Our last proper time together.'

In September, Jodie's going to the sixth form college, where they do much better drama courses than at St Christopher's. Nell's parents have announced they're moving to Bristol, where there are plenty of schools offering great science A-levels. I'm trying to get a place somewhere I can study music and songwriting. The Manic Pixie Dream Girls are finally splitting up.

We wander over to the ‘alternative' tent where a folk band are playing wild ceilidh music, all bright strings and fast, rhythmic drumming. Nell spots her dad in the crowd and goes off to join him. I realise I'd better find Mum and say hello.

I'm walking outside near the main stage when I could swear I hear someone calling my name. It's hard to be certain, because a large blues band is playing very loudly, through a speaker right behind my head. Still, I look around, wondering if someone from my class is here.

Instead I spot a different face looking straight at me. A beautiful face, with storm-cloud eyes under a mop of dark hair. He looks embarrassed to be waving at me, and many boys in his position would probably have pretended not to notice me at all. But he's too kind for that.

Gentleman Dan.

We meet up and walk as far away from the speaker as we can.

‘So, how are you?' he asks.

The last time I saw him, he was staring at his shoes
while Rose sang about him reaching for the stars. Maybe that's why my first answer comes out ‘Fhhhhggghh.' But once I've cleared my throat, my second answer is ‘Fine'.

We make polite conversation for a couple of minutes. His family's fine. So's mine. Call of Duty are OK. They have a new bassist, but apart from that . . .

‘And Rose?' I ask. I can't bear it any longer. I know she got in touch and apologised, and he went to visit her in London, but after that she stopped talking about him to me. I assume they've started dating again, secretly, like before, and she wanted to spare my feelings, which was kind of her.

‘Rose?' he echoes.

‘Is she . . . OK?'

He looks slightly confused. ‘I assume so.' Then he looks embarrassed, as he works out what I really mean.

‘Oh. I saw her a while ago,' he begins. ‘It was good. We'd both assumed a lot of . . . stupid stuff. She said you helped fix it. Did you?'

I half nod and stare at the floor.

‘Well, thanks,' he says awkwardly. And, realising that I'm waiting for more, he adds, ‘We're not going out, though. I thought she'd have told you. We couldn't make it work again. It was too . . . intense the first time.'

Thanks for that, Dan. Way to put an image in my head I don't really want.

‘Oh. Right.'

‘It felt too strange being back together,' he goes on, even though I don't need him to. Really. Fine with not knowing the details.

‘Uh huh.'

He still seems to think he owes me an explanation. ‘It
was weird, you know, after those songs. Her life is so public now. If we'd gone back out, everyone would have known about us. I mean, I'm so proud of her, but I don't want to be the Breathless boy for the rest of my life.'

He laughs, embarrassed, and I laugh too, to be polite. He already
is
Breathless Boy, without the ‘the'. To me, anyway.

He's still looking at me, and I know he's remembering when that song played in the Land Rover, and the kiss that didn't happen between us.

‘I'm sorry,' he says, softly. ‘About . . . everything.'

‘I know. You told me.'

He laughs. ‘I seem to apologise to you a lot.'

I smile too. ‘You mess up a lot, Dan Matthews.'

‘Yeah. I suppose I do.'

For a moment we look at each other and we wonder. There is nothing officially keeping us apart now. But we look and look and nothing happens. As always with Dan, the moment passes. There is too much history. Right boy, wrong time. I want to be the girl things got ‘too intense' with, not the one who came next. His story was always Rose's, not mine.

Above us, a plane is flying quite low, coming in from the direction of the town and starting to form a lazy circle in the sky above us. We look up to watch it. It's an old-fashioned red biplane, towing a banner, but it's too far away for us to read the words.

‘So you're singing later?' Dan asks, changing the subject, keen to move on.

‘Yes. It's the strangest thing. We really are.'

‘I bought the song. “You Don't Know Me”, I mean.'

‘Wow! Thanks. You helped
write
the song, by showing
me D minor. I probably owe you royalties.'

‘No, you don't.'

He reaches out and gently moves a stray strand of hair from my eyes. In the sky, the plane rumbles on, getting closer. Another festival tradition. Someone proposing to his girlfriend, no doubt, with ‘MARRY ME' in big letters in the sky.

‘I'll be there tonight,' Dan says. ‘In the audience somewhere.'

He dips his head to give me a fleeting kiss. The sweetest, softest, saddest goodbye. And then the tousle of his unruly hair disappears back into the crowd. For a while, I watch the space where he used to be.

Two minutes later, I'm still standing there, staring into space, when Jodie comes up to me.

‘
There
you are. I've been trying to find you. Look.'

She points over towards an old-fashioned Womble on a stick. Somebody's holding it up, presumably so their friends can find them. It's a festival tradition. There are lots of fluffy animals like this, bobbing around above the heads of the crowd.

I can't see what's so special about the Womble, but my mind's elsewhere. I don't tell Jodie what happened with Dan. It's becoming
my
Bigelow Festival tradition: kiss a boy and keep it a secret.

‘There! Can you see it?' Jodie insists.

‘Uh huh.'

‘Well? What do you think? Come on. We've got to find Nell.'

She seems bizarrely excited about this creature. I know Nell loves animals, but . . .

‘Wombles aren't real, Jodie,' I point out. ‘They're from an old TV show.'

I wonder if the sun is getting to her. Or maybe
I've
gone a bit crazy. I'm kind of devastated about losing Dan, but kind of OK. It's only now that I'm starting to realise just how difficult it was, imagining him and Rose back together. Now I know they aren't, the world is coming into a new sort of focus, and I'm still adjusting.

‘I don't mean the stupid
Womble
,' Jodie snorts. ‘I mean the plane. Look up in the sky. Big red thing. Noisy. OK, it's turning now. Watch.'

She puts her arm round me and holds me still while the biplane circles around and its banner comes into view. It's two words. I have to peer closely to make them out.

‘Oh my God. Quick! Nell! Let's find her.'

We set off at a run, but with no real idea where we're going. Nell could be anywhere by now. Around us, various people are gazing skywards, looking confused.

‘It's for us!' Jodie shouts joyfully at whoever will listen.

A plane. Rose hired a
plane
. And now Dan's not hovering beside her in my imagination, she's free. I'm free.

She hired a
plane.

‘Look! There!' Jodie says.

In the middle of a busy pathway, Nell and her dad are standing side by side, stock still, staring upwards. It's their stillness that makes them stand out. We rush over to them and all stand together.

‘What does it mean?' Nell's dad asks.

‘It means good luck,' I explain.

SEMINAL LEOTARDS, in big, black letters, flying above the festival, for everyone to see.