You Don't Know Me (26 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flying

I
text Rose, to say thank you. As usual, there's no reply. She's at an awards ceremony tonight, with Jessie J, and Adele, and quite possibly Paul McCartney. She's probably at a spa now or something, getting ready. Like you do.

But I wouldn't want to be anywhere except here right now. The three of us spend a couple of hours listening to bands and eating junk food, ignoring the butterflies in our stomachs, mentally rehearsing our own numbers.

I try to ignore the lyrics building up in my head about ‘right boy, wrong time', and ‘the only kiss you gave me was goodbye'. That's something Rose and I have in common about Dan Matthews: he's world-class for
inspiring breakup songs. Later, I'll write mine, and I'll feel better when the feelings become notes on the guitar and words on the page. For now, I just want to enjoy this special day.

Gradually, the hill in front of the main stage starts to fill up. Lots of die-hard Jim Fisher fans are already getting into position, making sure they have a good view of the stage. Normally, we'd be among the crowd. So strange that this year we're heading backstage instead, to meet up with the band, stopping to sign the odd autograph and pose for pictures along the way.

We retrace our steps to the artists' area, flashing our gold passes at the security team. The band are waiting for us, chatting happily to the backstage crew. They've spent the day quaffing champagne around Jim's swimming pool, and playing with his children. They're all in a very good mood.

Mum arrives backstage, bearing spare cupcakes from her stall, so that she can help us out. Our changing room is another Portakabin, smelling faintly of antiseptic handwash, where we spend a happy hour transforming ourselves into the Dream Girls, using the hair and makeup techniques we've perfected over years of practice.

One of the crew knocks on the door.

‘Line check!' he calls.

Still in our day clothes, we follow all the band except Jim to the main stage, to check that the sound levels are right for our mics and the instruments. Jim's staying behind so he can make a big entrance later. ‘Preserving the drama', in fact. The rest of us spend five minutes onstage. I wish I could be wearing Nell's glasses, but instead I half-close my eyes, so the crowd is one big blur. Then we head
quickly back. Our set starts in twenty minutes. Now the equipment is ready, we just have time to change.

‘You have to admit, though,' Jodie says, wriggling into her leggings and checking her top hat for damage, ‘it was kind of show-offy.'

‘Are we still talking about the banner?' Nell asks.

‘What else?'

‘Well, I liked it,' Nell says, pouting into the mirror to check her lipstick.

‘I'm not saying I didn't
like
it. I'm just saying it was grand.'

‘You loved it!' I tease her, jostling Nell for space at the mirror. ‘You were like a little kid.'

‘I am never,' Jodie huffs, slipping her feet into her glitter shoes, ‘like a little kid.'

‘Oh dear,' Rose says, pushing open the Portakabin door, ‘was it too much? I just got the idea and I couldn't resist.'

WAIT.

ROSE?

We all look round. Nell drops her lipstick. I nearly strangle myself with a boa. Jodie practically falls off her shoes.

‘Rose?' Long pause. ‘Aren't you in America?'

‘I was,' she smiles from under her large, floppy hat. ‘I landed this morning. Sorry I'm late.'

‘But the awards . . .' I stutter. I think I know every day of her schedule. ‘In London tonight. Jessie J. Adele. Your heroes. It says on the website you'll be there.'

Rose's smile turns to a grin. ‘Don't believe everything you read on the web. I told them I couldn't make it.'

We cluster round her, eager for news. How was the
tour? How did she get here? Is she in trouble? Is she going to watch us?
Why
couldn't she make the awards? Even Kylie is going to be there. The actual Kylie.

She just stands there, smiling, letting us ask questions until we're all asked out.

‘The tour was good, but this is better.'

‘What? Better than the White House?' Jodie scoffs.

‘Actually, yes. That was amazing, but this is . . . the best. I couldn't miss this gig. I came to wish you luck.'

‘Like the banner wasn't enough?' Jodie asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

‘Actually, no. When I thought about it, actually, no.'

‘And Linus said you could come?' I check, astonished.

Rose bites her lip. ‘No. He said I couldn't come. He wanted a picture of me next to Kylie.' There's a flash of defiance on her face, but a frown of worry, too.

‘You look exhausted,' Nell says, ignoring the fact that we only have five minutes left to get ready. ‘Come and sit down.'

She opens the door to the only seating area we have, which is a white plastic Portaloo. Nell closes the seat for Rose and props the cubicle door open with a shoe. Rose giggles and thankfully sits.

‘The thing is, I was in the limo this morning,' she says, ‘coming back to London from the airport, and I was thinking about the biplane. I was checking it was set to go, and thinking what fun it would be, flying over the fields with all the tents and banners, and I realised I was jealous. Of a plane. It was crazy. It was here, and I wasn't.'

Nell laughs. ‘So?'

‘I suddenly thought, what's the point of it all if you can't do what really matters? So I got the car to turn round
and take me to Reading station. It felt like the most rebellious thing I ever did.'

‘Oh lord,' Jodie sighs, ‘you haven't lived.'

‘I think I have,' Rose corrects her, cocking an eyebrow in her direction.

She looks around and grins. She's here, tired and jetlagged, hair all over the place, sitting on a Portaloo at a festival, chatting to three girls in glitter, sequins and feathers, who are about to sing a couple of hit songs with a band of top musicians. Yeah, this is probably living. Although the ‘and then I took a car to Reading station' probably won't go down as major misbehaviour in the annals of rock history.

‘So are you going to sing with us?' Nell asks.

Rose's smile fades slightly. She looks hesitant.

‘It's OK if you're too tired,' Nell says quickly.

‘No, it's not that. I mean, do you want me to? This is your gig.'

The three of us stare at her.

‘Yes,' I say, speaking for all of us. ‘We want you.'

‘What about the band? I haven't rehearsed . . .'

‘They'll be fine. We'll improvise. It's what we do.'

We rush around madly, rescuing a dress from Rose's suitcase (the one she wore at the White House, only slightly crushed), trying to sort her hair out, failing, deciding to hide it under the floppy hat. We talk to the band, who are perfectly happy – unsurprisingly – for us to be joined by a famous recording artist with a number one hit, who's good at improvising, and who Jim Fisher is very fond of anyway.

We're running late now, but we're the four of us, one
last time. And yes, it was worth it. Back in London, Kylie will probably cope.

While Jodie's busy doing her vocal exercises and Nell is calling her mum to tell her what's happening, I help Rose with her dress. In her bag, her phone goes off about once a minute.

‘It'll be Elsa,' she says, rolling her eyes Jodie-style and ignoring it.

‘Are you OK now?' I ask. ‘Really?'

It seems a bit crazy to be asking someone this when you're zipping them into a custom-made black velvet evening dress, encrusted with silver musical notes, but I mean it. A life run by Elsa doesn't seem perfect to me.

‘Yes,' she says, seriously. ‘I think so. It's kind of unreal, but the music's real. That makes it worth it. Plus, Elsa's working for Roxanne Wills soon, so I'm getting this sweet girl called Gitte to help me. She's a jazz freak too. I miss you, though. So much.'

‘I miss you too. I bumped into Dan today by the way. He said you weren't . . .'

‘No. And you didn't . . . ?'

‘No.'

She looks at me and laughs. ‘I assumed . . .'

‘So did I.'

There's a pause while I zip.

‘Listen,' Rose says. ‘There's a producer in Malibu.'

‘What?
The
Malibu?'

‘Yes. I'm working with him on some songs for the album. He's a genius. You'd love him. Do you want to come out, just for a few weeks? Maybe your mum could come and cook for us. You'd meet loads of musicians. We all hang out on the beach together and . . .'

‘Yes. Just yes.'

‘Oh, Sash! Thank you.'

She squeezes me close. The White House dress is very prickly. I make a mental note not to hug her too often when she's in her stage clothes.

The summer stretches out ahead. Me. Rose. America. Music. The beach. And songs. A whole summer of writing songs.

By now, the backstage crew are getting nervous, and the crowd are chanting for Jim. Mum hugs us goodbye and the organisers shepherd us through a secret backstage route towards the stage. Nell's the one who points out that this is totally like being in a Taylor Swift video. She's right. Maybe Rose Ireland videos will be like this one day.

I keep my eyes open properly this time. As we peer out from the back of the stage, Crakey Hill is stretched out before us, bathed in summer sun. Almost every bit of it is covered with people by now. Hundreds of them, hundreds and hundreds. With every moment that goes by, the gaps fill up and the sea of faces gets deeper. When the first band members take the stage, the crowd gives a roar.

It's like a living creature! A big, relaxed, cuddly animal, having a good time. Soon that crowd will be singing along to ‘Sunglasses', then swaying to ‘You Don't Know Me'. A billion devices all over the world are all very well, I think, but a thousand people who can sing your song back to you – well, that's something else. The butterflies in my stomach, which have been fluttering gently all day, now start doing a full-on gymnastics routine.

We walk to the front in our finery and hundreds of people start cheering. When Rose walks on behind us,
unannounced, they all go mad. You can hardly hear yourself think for the noise.

Jim Fisher comes on last, in a gold lamé jacket and one of his old silk shirts, slit to the waist, looking slightly ridiculous and very cool. The crowd goes insane.

‘It's good to be here tonight,' he says, filling the hills with his sexy voice. More cheering and waving. ‘We've got a lot of great numbers to play for you, but first I'd like to introduce some friends of mine. I think you know who they are. Here, reunited for one night only, I give you . . . the Manic Pixie Dream Girls!'

I have never heard so much happy screaming. And then I spot something that makes me want to scream too. Almost everyone in the front few rows is wearing sunglasses. Silly, plastic ones, like the ones Rose bought here last year, that we used in our video. Some are dressed up as chambermaids. Others are waving feather boas and rocking sequin shorts. They're here for us! Not just for Jim, but us too. I want to cry all over again. I love these people, each and every one.

We hold hands and face the crowd together. I squeeze Rose's hand, and she squeezes back. Jim shouts ‘One, two, three,' and launches into the opening bars of ‘Sunglasses'. Ahead of us, the hill is alive with happy faces. I already have that flying feeling again.

One last time, we step up to the mics to sing.

 

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'd like to say a big thank you to:

All the students at schools I visited in 2012, who gave me the courage and inspiration to keep writing this story.

Gaby Munyard and Sophie Elliot, who read the manuscript for me and gave me lots of useful advice.

Keith Richards (the autobiography) and Adam Norsworthy for insights into the music side.

My Facebook friends, for some of the shares I shamelessly stole for this story.

Wayward Daughter, whose YouTube video for ‘You Lost Your Place' was part of my playlist for this book. (‘She's wearing your clothes' is one of my favourite lines.)

My writer friends at the Sisterhood: I couldn't do it without you.

My husband Alex, for everything, from D minor chords to iPhones. And for my sanity.

Emily, Sophie, Freddie and Tom, who are living, breathing members of the wired generation, and who this time had to share me with Sasha, Rose, Jodie and Nell.

And last, but never least, my wonderful editor Imogen Cooper, Barry Cunningham, Rachel Hickman and the rest of the team at Chicken House. You really do know me!

 

 

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