To Be Someone (29 page)

“Um—I’ll be okay once we start playing,” I said nervously.

Sam suddenly threw her arms around me.

“This is incredible!” she said. “I am so proud of you! I can’t believe I’m here, and you’re here, and you’re doing this unbelievable thing!” She had tears in her eyes.

“I’m just glad you’re here to see me do it,” I said, hugging her back.

We found an out-of-the-way space at the side of the stage, and perched on top of a huge square flight case: Sam nearest the audience, me (trying to be inconspicuous) lurking out of sight behind her, watching the excited crowd preparing for their day’s entertainment. I fanned my hot face with a tabloid newspaper I found next to me, and thought about how all those people had come to be there. Maybe they had heard the show announced on the radio, and they had been excited at the thought of three or four of their favorite bands playing at the same gig. Perhaps all their favorite bands were playing. They’d have mustered up a group of friends, or told their partners to mark it in their diaries, and then gotten their credit cards out to phone the ticket hotline; or maybe they had sent away for tickets in the post.

Either way, their tickets would have arrived a week or so later, plopping onto the doormat in an anonymous envelope, with that exciting, shiny new-paper smell. They’d have put them somewhere safe—a drawer, or stuck to the fridge door with a magnet in the shape of a London bus—and told all their other unluckier friends that they were going to the Big Show. Finally, the day had arrived, and they had climbed onto trains at dawn, or filled up their cars with petrol and packed lunches, or boarded chartered coaches.

And now here they were, many at Wembley for the first time, smelling what I was smelling, staking out their spots on the covered-over football pitch, wondering if it was better to go further back where it was cooler, and where they could sit down without being stepped on, or to go for it—right up to the front, elbowing their way to a prime viewing position close enough to see the little hidden nuances of performance that the huge video screens never picked up. I imagined the real fans who had been queuing outside for hours and hours, bursting through the turnstiles and running, running across the pitch at Wembley to be the first to the security barrier at the front. They would risk losing their places if they had to go to the loo or to get something to eat—perhaps they just didn’t go all day, and their enjoyment of the show would be marred by the pressure of a bursting bladder.

“They look so excited, don’t they?” said Sam from her perch. “Look at that girl down there in the front, with the Blue Idea baseball cap on. She’s jumping up and down already, and nothing’s happening yet!”

I looked at my watch. “Well, it must be about to—it’s two o’clock.”

As I spoke, music abruptly ceased thumping from the speakers, and a lone figure in a sparkly gray suit ran onto the stage. A massive cheer went up.

“That’s Jeremy Jackson, the comedian,” I said. “He’s emceeing the show.”

“I know,” Sam replied. “Everyone knows who he is.”

Actually, I’d never heard of Jeremy Jackson before that week, but Sam assured me he was very famous in the U.K. He welcomed everybody, made a few lame jokes, and read off a list the coming attractions for the day. Every time he moved, his suit twinkled and glittered in the sunlight. After each band he mentioned the crowd cheered, louder and louder until he said, “…     and of course, closing the show tonight: your favorites, the amazing, phenomenal, spectacular … BLUE IDEA!!!” and everyone went absolutely wild. Their arms were raised, waving and punching the air, and the sound of whistling and screaming was deafening. I felt a cold but excited shiver from the bottom of my stomach, and Sam leaned across and squeezed my knee with both her hands.

We stayed in our spot at the side of the stage for most of the day, as Sam was absolutely riveted by seeing the best bands of the moment from such close quarters, only leaving it between sets to get more water, eat, or pee. Occasionally other musicians came up to introduce themselves to me, and I made sure they all shook hands with Sam, too. The guys in the Happy Mondays were surprisingly sweet, and autographed a photo for her to keep.

It was a great day. Over the previous couple of years I had become so jaded and sick of these self-congratulatory, bombastic events, which I believed served only to boost egos and extract hard-won money from starstruck children. Sam’s genuine and wholehearted excitement put me back in touch with what it should be about: the spirit of the occasion. She always seemed to show me the positive in an experience.

The next time I looked at my watch, it was 6:45
P.M.
, and the stadium was still steaming with heat and excitement. The Happy Mondays, who were the penultimate band, were about to take the stage, but Sam and I were starting to wilt.

“If we’re this hot, just think what it must be like in the crowd!” she said, feebly puffing air onto her face from the corners of her mouth. “I’m feeling a bit tired. Is there somewhere I could go and rest for a while? I want to make sure I’m on form for your set.”

She was beginning to look very pale. I felt concerned for her.

“Well, I need to have a shower and get changed, and the guys will be here shortly. Why don’t we go down to the dressing room, and you can have a lie-down on the sofa while I get ready?”

Sam nodded, and we climbed off the flight case to make our way backstage. As we got through the door a massive cheer rose from the crowd, and we heard the opening strains of “Step On” strike up.

Sam looked torn. “Oh, I
love
this song! I really need to lie down, though … but I really want to see them! Specially after they were so nice to me.… Oh, what shall I do?”

“Go and lie down,” I said firmly. “They’ll be on for at least an hour. Have a rest and then we’ll go back up and catch the end of their set.”

Sam capitulated, but walked very slowly with one ear cocked toward the ever-fainter sounds from the stage.

We got back to the dressing rooms, where in the one adjoining mine—an identical harshly lit, un-air-conditioned cell—I found Justin, Joe, and David smoking and playing poker. I stuck my head around the door while Sam lurked in the hall behind me, partly from shyness but more to avoid the effects of the cigarette smoke.

“Hi! You’re early,” I said to them, impressed.

“Yeah, we’ve been here ages—what kept you?” asked Joe, flapping the collar of his shirt in the direction of a fan in the corner, which was halfheartedly moving air around.

“Guys, you remember Sam, don’t you?” I pointed proudly at her. She waved from the doorway and blew Justin a provocative kiss. “I’m not bringing her in because you’re smoking out the place. But she’ll be around later. We’re going next door so I can get ready.”

I caught a momentary flash of shock in Justin’s eyes as he clocked the difference in Sam’s appearance, how much older and gaunter she’d become, and I found myself willing him to still fancy her. But nonetheless he rushed over and pecked her on the cheek enthusiastically. “Hi! Fantastic to see you again!”

Totally unprompted by me, he added, “Hey, you know, we’re all real glad that you’re better now. Helena was so upset, and we all, like, thought of you and stuff.”

Joe and David mumbled agreement. I felt like a proud mother at a nativity play.

“Thanks,” said Sam, uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden. “See you later.”

“They’ve gone all kind of designer-y and smart,” she commented to me as we entered my dressing room.

“Yeah, well, no more jeans and T-shirts for us worldwide superstars,” I said, going to stand in front of my own floor fan, which someone had kindly turned on in advance. Sam flopped down onto a big velveteen couch in the corner, putting her feet up on the cushionless arm.

“I’d never have believed that Joe could look so much like a model. Justin looks the same, though. Has he got a girlfriend at the moment?”

“Why do you ask? Fancy another dose of crabs, do you?”

Sam shuddered and giggled. “Ugh, no thanks. But you know, I like to keep my options open.”

“Well, the answer is, yes he has. She’s a model, six-foot-two, looks like Cindy Crawford, and is very possessive. She’s arriving any minute from a fashion shoot in Paris, so you’d better not encourage Justin or else the feathers’ll be flying.”

Sam closed her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m far too knackered to flirt. She can keep him. Nice to see them all again, though.”

“Yeah, they obviously thought the same about you. Have a bit of a kip—I’m going to risk this dodgy-looking shower in here. See you later.”

“Mmm,” said Sam, with one arm thrown over her eyes. She looked out for the count.

She was fast asleep when I emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, having washed and dried my hair, and done some energetic singing in the shower to get my voice warmed up. The makeup lady was coming round at 7:15
P.M.
, so I did not touch my face. Normally I preferred to do my own makeup, but given the excessive heat, I thought I’d better defer to her professional expertise on this occasion. I did not want my mascara sliding down my face after the first number.

I zipped my suit out of its plastic sheath, examining it for wrinkles, but it had been hanging all day and was fine. I slid the black nubby raw silk jacket on over my bra—too hot to wear a shirt as well. The fabric was shot through with a subtle gold thread that picked up the light and shone faintly when I moved my arms to do up the big gold buttons. I worked each foot through the tight legs of the pedal-pusher-style trousers until they were liberated and I could straighten to do up the zip. I had been wearing this style of outfit for two years now—a old Hispanic lady in Manhattan made them individually for me.

The genesis of the idea had come when I’d started wearing big long shirts over tube skirts, back in the early, chubby days. I wanted something that covered up my hips and thighs, but shirts somehow were not smart enough for the image I wanted to convey, so one night I had worn a long jacket with its buttons done up, over some thick black leggings. I felt instantly transformed—my trunk was hidden underneath its length, yet I could expose the respectable part of my long legs (from mid-thigh down). From there I’d graduated to trouser suits with frock-coat jackets, and even after I got slim enough to wear miniskirts, I still loved my suits. I could look chic but not girly, smart but not secretarial.

I made it my mission to find as many funky and unusual fabrics as possible, and whenever we toured in exotic places like the Far East, I would disappear to the local markets for hours (probably a throwback to my days spent happily rummaging around jumble sales), returning joyously with a bolt of thick bronze satin, or ten yards of sari material. Annie Lennox had said more than once in interviews how much she admired my dress sense.

It was the first time I’d worn this particular suit, and even I had to admit I looked pretty hot. I had recently had a gold streak put in the front of my short chestnut hair, which I had dried and gelled back into a kind of high rockabilly quiff, and the outfit was completed by a pair of sparkly gold crepe-soled brothelcreepers. It didn’t seem to matter that we weren’t even remotely a rockabilly band.

There was a soft knock at the door. I opened it to admit the makeup lady, Glenda, with her big zip-up bag of tricks. I pointed at Sam, comatose on the sofa, and put my finger against my lips.

“I don’t want to wake her just yet,” I whispered, motioning Glenda over toward the spotlit mirror. She sat me down and got to work in silence, painting and lining with a rock-steady hand; puffing and brushing my face with an assortment of tiny little sponge-tipped sticks and twirly brushes; applying metallic brown-gold shades of eye shadow and lipstick to match the rest of my outfit. The only sounds in the room were Glenda’s concentrated breathing, the whirr of the fan, and Sam snoring softly in the background.

Just as Glenda had finished and was packing up her bag, Sam woke to the sight of me in my finery standing before her. She rubbed her eyes and stared at me with disbelief.

“Ta-daaa!” I said, spreading my arms and grinning. “Whaddaya think?”

Sam sat up. “Oh my God,” she said incredulously. “You look so different! It’s absolutely amazing! Helena, you look
so beautiful
!”

“Oh, please,” I said, pretending to be offended. “Could you try and sound a little less surprised?” But I was glowing with pleasure as I picked an imaginary speck of fluff off the sleeve of my suit.

“Bye now,” said Glenda, who was also looking rather pleased with herself. “I’m off next door to sort out those boys of yours.”

“Good luck! Tell them I hope they’re ready in ten minutes.”

“Good luck to you. Break a leg. I can’t wait to see your set. You lot are great. I’ve got all your records.” She blushed and edged out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“Right,” I said to Sam. “Are you set? Feeling better? You look a bit less pale.”

“Yes, I feel much better. I’ll just have a glass of water and a pee, and then can we go back up to the stage?”

“Sure—I’ll tell the guys to meet us up there. Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m much too nervous for you! I’ll take some of that fruit up for later, though.”

Sam went into the toilet and I went next door, where Glenda was trying to put eyeliner on Justin while he smoked a cigarette.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Justin, can’t you stub that out for two minutes?” I said as Glenda coughed pointedly. “Poor Glenda doesn’t want to breathe in your disgusting smoke. Or better still, give it to me and I’ll smoke it.”

I was beginning to feel very nervous by now, and decided that a few puffs would calm me down a bit. I snatched the cigarette from his dangling hand and inhaled deeply, hoping to finish it before Sam returned.

“We’re going to catch the end of the Happy Mondays. See you by the monitor desk in ten minutes, okay?”

Justin nodded with his eyes closed, making Glenda paint a black line on his cheek by mistake. As I left the room she was tutting and scrubbing at his face with a cleanser-covered cotton wool ball. I stubbed out the cigarette as Sam emerged from my dressing room.