Girl Online (12 page)

As the others turn to look out of the window, I lower my voice so that only Noah can hear. “I'm so excited for Magical Mystery Day!”

“Me too,” says Noah, squeezing my hand.

“Elliot texted me earlier with a long list of amazing places
we need to check out. There's a structure that's over three hundred and fifty metres tall and—”

Blake interrupts me with a snigger. “A what now? Magical what?” He looks at Noah and me.

I feel a wave of embarrassment as I think about how childish it must sound to Blake. But Noah jumps right in to defend us.

“Lay off, man . . . You wouldn't know romance if it bit you in the ass!”

In typical boy style, Blake threatens to moon us, and instantly the tension is released.

Luckily, Larry shouts from the front of the bus that we've arrived—just before Blake's pants can come down. Perfect timing. Dean claps his hands together and everyone's attention focuses on him. “Guys, I have some amazing news!” His eyes are sparkling like he's won the lottery. “You'll never guess who's going to be joining The Sketch onstage tonight.” He pauses for a moment, letting the anticipation build. “Leah Brown! It's a total secret for now, but the crowd will be absolutely buzzing! How awesome is that, guys?”

Everyone around me is jumping and high-fiving—this is a huge coup for the tour, and will raise the publicity levels through the roof. But, when I wished for another girl to be here, Noah's not-really-ex-girlfriend was
not
who I meant. If I think Blake is making this tour difficult, I'm almost certain the arrival of Leah Brown means it's about to get a whole lot worse.

Chapter Fifteen

The venue in Berlin feels twice as big as the Brighton Centre, and our footsteps echo across the stage as Noah prepares to do his soundcheck. There are people all around us, but having driven straight from the airport to the hotel to the concert hall in the tour bus, I don't feel like I've seen anything of the city yet. We could be anywhere. The only indication this is Germany is the bright red signs saying
AUSGANG
instead of
EXIT
.

I walk right up to the front of the stage, staring out at the sea of empty seats that will soon be filled with screaming fans. Even though the place is empty, I still get a little shiver down my spine.

At least I won't have to be out in the crowd this time. I have my backstage pass hanging round my neck and I look so attached to it that Noah joked I might take it to bed with me. I just might. I don't want to risk another incident like what happened in Brighton. I won't have any friends here who will be looking out for me.

I lift up my camera and take a picture of the empty stalls.
I have a vision that I can layer images of the crowd on top of the empty seats and make some kind of statement on the nature of the relationship between performance and audience. Miss Mills would like that for my alternative-perspectives project.
Is it still a performance if no one is there to listen?
I wonder.

I step back from the front of the stage, edging towards the shadows. Noah is standing in a pool of light in the middle of the stage, dressed in a maroon Harvard hoodie and black jeans, singing the first few bars of “Elements.” I snap a picture of that too: the performer before the performance, the many hours of rehearsal and hard work that the fans almost never get to see. This is turning out to be perfect for my A-levels project.

I'm lost in the image of Noah losing himself in his music, until Blake smashes the cymbals on his drum kit behind me, making me jump. I stumble backwards, tripping over a bundle of cords on the floor. I'm so concerned with preserving my camera that I don't reach out to break my fall and I crash against a stack of speakers. The smallest speaker at the top wobbles precariously from the force of my impact.

Please don't fall, please don't fall
, I pray to the gods of clumsiness.

They don't listen.

The speaker drops to the ground with a sickening crack, pieces flying across the stage. I'm slumped on the floor, my shoulder throbbing, but my camera is in one piece—a tiny silver lining, at least.

“Penny! Oh my god, are you OK?” Noah runs over to me.

I stand up quickly, brushing myself off. I try to avoid wincing, which turns my smile into a weird grimace. “I'm fine, seriously, Noah—you better keep on rehearsing. I—I can pay for the speaker.”

“No, don't worry about that. Blake, what the hell, man?”

Blake looks over at me and shrugs. “Hey, it's not my problem if your girlfriend is a klutz.”

“He's right—I'm a klutz,” I stammer.

Noah frowns. “Well, you're
my
klutz and I don't want you to get hurt. Those speakers are seriously heavy.”

I nod and, to hide the bright red blush of shame that has risen in my cheeks, I drop back to the floor and start to pick up the broken pieces of the speaker that have shattered across the stage. I'm never going to go on a stage again. Stages and I are officially cursed.

“Steve will help clear this up.” Noah gestures over to one of the roadies, who's already at hand with a dustpan and brush. I vaguely recognize him from the quick-fire round of introductions when we first entered the venue. Noah knows the name of every member of the crew, even if he's only met them once; it's yet another thing that makes him so special. “We can get a new speaker here, right?”

“No problem,” says Steve. “We can switch one out from the back.”

“See? All good. Just ignore Blake and I'll come meet you after I've rehearsed.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I'm still frustrated.
Why do I have to be such a liability?
Backstage is hopefully much safer.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Elliot.

He texts back almost straightaway.

I'm about to text back
No
, but all of a sudden that's not true anymore.

Leah Brown walks into the backstage area, her hair pulled into a ponytail, her face makeup free. In fact, the only thing that marks her as an internationally super-famous pop star is the fact that about a dozen people are trailing after her, struggling to keep up with her long-legged strides. Leah looks down at the tablet one of her minions is holding.

“Ugh, I hate that. Weren't there any better pictures than that one? Tell Frankie P. we might need to do another shoot if that's the best he can come up with.”

I want a hole to open up and swallow me. If I look away she might not notice me, but I can't stop staring at her. Even before she gets all her hair and makeup done, she's beautiful, like a magnet that draws all eyes her way. I think this is what people mean when they say someone has star quality, the X factor. Her presence changes the air, makes everything feel more electric.

Elliot would call it a certain je ne sais quoi.

Megan would be jealous.

Ollie would be drooling.

I get the shivers.

I don't understand how Noah could have been in a “fake” relationship with this girl. How could any straight guy spend time in her presence and not fall in love with her?

Even though I'm making a fool out of myself by staring like a lunatic, Leah and her posse walk straight past me without stopping—with the exception of the girl who's been told to contact Frankie P. She grabs one of the other girls and I can hear her mutter, “Tell François-Pierre Nouveau that he has to redo this shoot? How am I supposed to do that?” Her face is white with panic and the ends of her sentences rise
into a high-pitched squeal. I've heard of François-Pierre Nouveau—he's one of the most famous photographers in the world. I can't believe I'm in the presence of someone who has had a photo shoot with François-Pierre—or, rather, someone who is
rejecting
the work of François-Pierre and calls him
Frankie P
.

“You'll have to figure it out,” the other girl says. “This is LB's
album
cover we're talking about. If she's not happy . . .”

“I'm going to die. I'm officially going to die.”

This time they see me staring and they both shoot me dark looks. I keep moving, stammering an apology.

“Penny?”

I turn round reluctantly. Leah is standing with one hand on her hip, and the rest of her group is looking at me like I've grown another head. I nod, and swallow hard. “Hi, Leah.”

She walks towards me, and it feels more like a predator approaching prey than someone coming over to say hello.

“So
you're
Penny Porter.”

I don't really know how to respond to that, so I just nod again.

“You were the one that gave me so much trouble last year,” she says, her drawn-out LA accent touched with a hint of her Southern roots. She looks me up and down, and I feel her entire group judging my outfit. I haven't exactly made an effort today. I'm dressed to ride in a tour bus, so I'm in my comfy jeans and a zip-up sweater. I fold my arms protectively across my chest but stand tall.

“Well, I guess I owe you a thanks for the song inspiration. Sweet camera. See you around,” she says with a little wave, before turning back to her group.

Leah had used the media storm that exploded around her fake breakup with Noah to launch her latest number-one internationally bestselling single “Bad Boy.” Leah writes a lot of her own music, and this one had been primed and ready in case of any eventuality—in this case, using her breakup with Noah to her advantage. I'm sure there were songs about how deeply in love they were too, in case things had continued to be smooth sailing.

As she walks away, I feel like I could faint with relief. I need to speak to Elliot. Stat.

Chapter Sixteen