It's a Girl Thing (26 page)

“Er, are you sure you need me today, Ronnie?” Christy says, his voice faltering. “I mean, I'm not bothered if you wanna cancel me. I know I'm not much of a singer and all that . . .” Christy's face is as white as chalk.

“Oi! You're not getting out of this that easy, Christy Sullivan.” I smile reassuringly. “Besides, then there
would
be a riot.”

Christy attempts a smile, but a worried frown battles through. Seamus rolls his eyes at me.

I make a mental note to have Masher keep a close eye on him—we can't have our opening act absconding over the back fence. Saying that, I'm not much calmer. I barely slept a wink last night and I certainly can't face breakfast. I must be functioning right now on pure nervous energy.

The LBD were here on Blackwell's playing fields until almost 10:00 P.M. last night, taking delivery of one rather magnificent all-weather stage, two huge powerful speakers, and a modest refreshments marquee and dance tent. That was very exciting!

All paid for in full too!

Ha, stick that in your pipe and smoke it, so-called Cyril from Castles in the Sky.

It took hours of hammering, carrying and hoisting by the Castles crew, but as darkness fell, we had a proper festival site with a real PA system, just like you see on MTV!

“Pah, who needs Astlebury? This is much better!” announced Fleur, which made the roadies laugh out loud.

“Hey, you're not wrong, kiddo,” chirped up Uncle Charlie. “Small music festivals are always better, there's a better vibe,” he drawled.

That made us all smile.

Well, for a short while anyhow. Charlie then continued to tell the LBD an exceedingly long-winded story about his first Astlebury Festival experience back in 1978. “Back when the festival was only fifty people and a few goats” and “it was all about the music then” and “not the big corporate event that rock festivals are these days blah blah blah. . . .” But by this time the LBD's minds were on other matters at hand, such as getting back to Fleur's to make backstage passes. Yes, you heard that right. Backstage passes! Apparently we needed them.

“Look, girls, there's no point having a backstage VIP area and Masher and the lads guarding it if we don't know who's meant to be inside or outside of it!” Uncle Charlie had warned us. “Especially if you're expecting trouble with that . . . wossis name? Christy Sullivan? That's 'im. Christy Sullivan's fans. Oooh, they're the worst offenders at festivals, those young teenage girls. They'll spend their whole day either screaming their lungs out, giving me a migraine, or plotting to get backstage and manhandle the talent. Bane of my life . . . ,” Charlie moaned.

So with that peril in mind, the LBD were up till well after 1:00 A.M. last night, cutting and pasting Access All Area passes for bandmembers, friends and crew; and with their glittery, laminated finish and candy-striped ties, very chic they are too! Poor Fleur has been delegated the task of dishing the passes out, a job I do not envy. Every Blackwell kid wants to go backstage and rub shoulders with the bands, and every band had a posse of mates they want to take backstage with them. It's a nightmare working out who to say no to! Fleur's phone never stopped buzzing on Friday, the worst offenders being the EZ Life Syndicate, who by 11:00 P.M. last night had demanded THIRTY AAA passes for “the Syndicate” and “their entourage”! Bless Christy Sullivan, he only wanted three passes: for his mum, dad and granny. Awww. He's so sweet, you could eat him, isn't he?

Of course, even with the AAA passes made, I still had my hair to dye from dark brown to “Auburn Gloss,” my nails to French manicure and my festival outfit to choose! Every combination of every garment I own was tried, assessed and discarded, creating a towering clothes mountain of skirts, denims and tops, then eventually, at 4:00 A.M. this morning, I settled for the outfit I'm wearing now: my hippest deep-indigo-colored hipster jeans, a minxish midriff-exposing baby-pink T-shirt and . . . wait for it . . . a hot-pink lacy thong that Fleur bought me last Christmas, arranged so you can see a glimpse of it from the back of my jeans! Obviously, I've spent the whole morning turned away from Dad so he doesn't see the thong and burst a main artery.

“Sure I can't get you anything to eat, Ronnie?” asks my dad, placing his arm around my shoulder as Ainsley and Candy from Death Knell stagger past backstage, carrying flutes, synths, steel drums and bags of costumes. “You've not had a bite yet,” Dad worries.

“I'll have a large coffee, please, Dad,” I say. “As strong as you like.”

It's going to be a long day.

 

 

By 11:00 A.M., backstage is really hotting up: Fleur Swan is flitting about with an armful of Access All Area passes, her tiny pert posterior clad in perilously miniscule black velvet hot pants. Obviously, Fleur looks a zillion dollars and certainly has the eye of Killa Blow from the EZ Life Syndicate, who never misses a chance to cup her waist with his arm or direct a joke in her direction, making her dissolve into fits of giggles.

“You're terrible, Killa! Leave me alone,” squeals Fleur unconvincingly until they spot our compere Paddy Swan, clad in a pinstripe suit, looking ever so slightly like a simmering psychopath.

“Errr, morning, Mr. Swan, lovely to see you.” Killa winces, removing his hands from Paddy's daughter, then continues to beg Fleur for more Access All Area passes so more of his “crew” can “show him some love” backstage. And as each face arrives, Claudette Cassiera, looking blithe and beautiful in close-fitting black jeans and an aqua-blue crop top with
Top Bird
across the front, plus funky handlebar bunches in her hair, ticks them off on her bright red clipboard, warning everybody to listen out for an important announcement at 11:30 A.M.

“If you want to know what time you're going on stage and in what order, do yourself a favor and be here,” Claude warns, turning to me with a quizzical look. “Ronnie,” she whispers as Guttersnipe's Benny and Tara report in for duty, “have you any idea which band your uncle Charlie's roadies and security usually work for?”

“Funny you should ask,” I reply, helping pin a rose into Tara's crimped white-blond hair. “They're very tight-lipped about it, aren't they? I can't get a straight answer. That roadie Pip keeps changing the subject, and as for Vinny—”

“Vinny says he can't remember!” Claude adds.

“And Uncle Charlie just said ‘no comment' when I asked.” I laugh. “Hey, it must be someone reeeeally embarrassing, eh? They're too ashamed to admit it.”

“Must be,” agrees Claude. “But never mind, they're being absolute stars anyway. Masher is doing a brilliant job on the main entrance gate. There's hundreds of kids here already waiting for us to open and not one of them has got past him!”

“Er, that might be something to do with the fact he looks like a bulldozer in a bomber jacket,” I venture. “He's got SATAN SLAVE tattooed on his left hand, have you seen that?”

“Exactly,” Claude chirps. “He's the perfect security guard.”

She has a very hard streak, that girl.

 

 

As Claude prepares to speak to the group, I scan the backstage area: There's the whole extended EZ Life Syndicate, Killa Blow with his breathtaking defined cheekbones wearing an ostentatious bright white padded jacket-trousers combo and more gold than Queen Elizabeth II on a state occasion. Killa is flanked by pretty Chasterton chicks with high ponytails and large silver hoop earrings and lads wearing designer sportswear, Burberry caps and expensive shoes. Close by, Aaron, Naz and Danny from Lost Messiah are messing about, dressed in ripped combats and sleeveless vests emblazoned with gold dragons and prints of ninja warriors. Very sexy. Naz is plastering liquid hand soap into his hair, trying to form a perfect Mohawk, while beside him, Catwalk's Abigail and Leeza are making a big display of brushing their toned bodies with strawberry-scented talcum powder.

“Our outfits are so tight, we have to use talc to slide them on easier!” shrills Abigail, showing off her black rubber catsuit. It appears the whole of Catwalk will be coordinated today in identical ultra-close-fitting Lycra and rubber items. Derren and Zane (who are both extra orange-skinned today) are pouring their taut limbs into rubber trousers and ripped black Lycra vests. If you ask me, they look like some sort of lame intergalactic fighting force.

“Remember, Leeza, I'm wearing the most expensive suit!” pipes up the irritating tones of Panama Goodyear, who is drawing a perfect plum lip line around her pouting mouth. “So don't even think about putting it on,” she snaps.

Leeza looks embarrassed, then mutters: “Okay, Panama,” opting for a less impressive catsuit.

And I should have guessed what was coming next. I mean, you can't have one without the other, can you?

“Yoo-hoo, Jimi!” squeals Panama as Lost Messiah's lead singer eventually makes his appearance, winking at Claudette and nodding a nervous hello to me while Panama crawls all over him like the Ebola virus.

“I was worried about you, darling!” she simpers, trying to kiss his face.

“Oh, give it a rest, Panama,” says Jimi, gently trying to push her off with more than a flicker of discomfort.

“Oh, don't be silly.” Panama giggles. “I just want to kiss my boyfriend, is that so wrong?” she asks, groping his chest and slobbering on his face.

“Gerroffff,”
Jimi says, pushing her makeup-laden face away from his pristine white T-shirt.

Sigh.

I wish with all my soul that Jimi wasn't so unbelievably hot: It wouldn't feel like someone was kicking me up the bum with a pointy shoe every time I see him with that evil witch.

“Ooh, things don't look too rosy over in Camp Panama and Jimi, do they?” whispers Fleur, arching an eyebrow. “What was that Ainsley said about giving them a week?”

But I know she's just being kind.

“Don't,” I groan.

“So, hello, everyone!” shouts Claudette, climbing up onto a chair to be seen. “Can I have a bit of order now?! Yes, that means you too, Lost Messiah, shut up!”

“Sorry, Claude,” shouts Naz, his hair now jutting skyward like a bass-playing cockatiel.

“Okay now, I've gathered you all here to tell you today's running order and . . . er, hang on a second. Liam, are you okay?”

Claude breaks off, spying Liam Gelding copiously vomiting into a nearby bin.

“Stage fright.” Benny Stark winks, patting Liam's back.

“Well, can he hurl quietly, please? I'm trying to speak here,” continues Claude. “Now, our gates open in under thirty minutes' time, at noon. As you all have probably seen, we've got the bellringers positioned at the front gate, so that's one act safely accounted for. Now, I want the first stage act, which we all know is Christy Sullivan, ready to go on at one o'clock. Christy, are you with us?”

“Sort of,” says Christy regretfully.

“Good. Then, at quarter to two, I need Guttersnipe ready to rock. Tara, Benny, Liam, are you fine with that?”

“No bother, man.” Benny nods.

Splagghhhhhh
goes the sound of Liam's breakfast splattering on the side of the bin.

“Has he got hollow legs?” asks Claude. “That's a lot of vomit.”

“He'll be okay,” assures Tara. “Once he gets it all up.”

Panama wrinkles her nose in Guttersnipe's direction. “Uggh, how vile,” she mutters.

“So that takes us up to two-thirty, when I want Death Knell on stage. Then, after that, at three-fifteen, I need EZ Life Syndicate ready to rumble. Now, EZ Life, there's only room for twelve of you on the stage, so decide now who's performing and who's gonna be left at the side holding the coats. If all thirty of you—or however many of you there are now—jump up and down on stage together, I have it on good authority from Pip and Vinny, our roadies, that the stage could collapse like a souf flé. We do not, repeat, do NOT want that, do we?”

“No, Claude,” mutters EZ Life as a huge debate explodes about who is and isn't performing today.

“But I wrote that first song!” moans one lad with a red bandana wrapped around his head. “I should go on for verse two at least.”

“You only joined EZ Life two days ago!” one girl is yelling across to a tall black lad, apparently called Dane, with intricate mini-dreadlocks all over his head.

“Yeah, but I drove the van here!” Dane argues back. “And if I don't get to rap, I'm driving it home again without you lot in it!”

“He's got a point there,” announces Killa, clearly imagining the entire EZ Life Syndicate on the Number Thirty-nine bus back home to the Carlyle Estate.

“Okay, that's decided, then: Dane is rapping on
all
the songs,” announces Killa, causing much uproar.

“Oh, and EZ Life, remember, I need you off stage, no ifs, no buts, by four P.M.,” says Claude. “Because next up is Lost Messiah. If there's any problems at all with either band, just shout up now. Oh, and good luck!”

Of course, sadly, we all know what that means.

I know. Fleur knows. Claude obviously knows.

And Panama Goodyear and her goblins certainly know too, if their expressions of boundless glee are any indication.

I hate to even say it, but it's the irrefutable truth: Catwalk is Blackwell Live's starring act.

Panama didn't meet our gaze or even murmur a word; however, we all know Catwalk are certain victory is theirs. Bullying and nastiness has won the day. It's simply
less hassle
to just give Catwalk their own way. And what is more, it's what the crowd really really wants.