Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  Fleur bristles with pride, mouthing at me and Claude, “See! I told you Spike reads them!”

  “And you, Ronnie, posted some messages on my web boards last summer saying you’d been making out with ‘the skater dude’ a few months after I met you last time,” Spike says.

  I’ve gone crimson!

  “You sounded really loved up!” teases Spike. “It really cheered me up!”

  “Ugghh ... I just wanted to keep you up to date on the LBD gossip after, y’know, you were so kind to us.” I smile. “I didn’t actually think you’d read your own web message boards!”

  “Oh, I don’t just read them,” whispers Spike, mock-solemnly. “I post on them too! In fact I got so bored during the last stadium tour of Southeast Asia that I stole Lewis’s laptop and began posting messages slagging myself off. I pretend to be a mother of three in Doncaster called Vera.”

  “Hang on a minute!” gasps Fleur. “I had an argument with you a few months ago! I’m Blondie101!”

  “I’m Vera the Fearless!” whispers Spike, tapping his nose. “Hey, just don’t tell the Midnight Mayhem girls!”

  And then a grand cheer erupts right through the VIP room: The Fusia phone network has been restored!

  What a relief! Fleur’s phone begins to buzz furiously, her first greeting being from an apoplectic Paddy Swan, who threatens to “drive down to Astlebury and rip the arms off the joker with the tattoo gun.” Oh, dear. Next along is Daphne sounding pretty cross indeed that we left this morning without telling her where we were going.

  “If only she knew the half of it!” tuts Claude.

  I decide to leave Fleur alone to make some apologetic phone calls.

  I think I’m suffering from a celebrity overdose.

  I sneak off to the VIP bathrooms. I need a break from all this craziness. Standing in the loo, in front of the mirrors, soaping my hands in the metallic sinks, I can’t stop ogling the all new, improved, über-babe Ronnie Ripperton.

  Ooh, y’know I almost fancy myself! And to think that three short weeks ago, on Blackwell Disco night (or Black Friday, as Dad calls it) I was this close to shooting myself repetitively with a nail gun.

  Look at me now! With my va-voom celebrity hair and makeup! And I’m hanging out with the Spike Saunders entourage! I’m on top of the world!

  So why do I feel like there’s just one teensy-weensy-eensy thing missing?

  “Cool tattoo,” remarks a girl beside me, drying her hands. “Is that real?”

  “Er, wah ... eh?” I say, snapping out of my trance.

  “The tattoo?” repeats the girl, clad in navy cut-off trousers, sports jacket and a yellow baseball hat. Her long brown hair is swept into a ponytail.

  “Ooh! Ta,” I say, remembering the artwork on my neck. “It’s not real.”

  “Ah ... well, good for you!” she smiles, taking off her cap and displaying a red streak in her gilt-tipped hair. “It’s a crazy concept, isn’t it? Drawing stuff on your body, like, permanently? ‘Cos y’know, things change, don’t they? You end up feeling different about stuff, you know, like tattoos, music, boyfriends. No feeling lasts forever, does it?”

  “Hmmm, I know what you mean,” I smile, letting out a little groan. I used to think Jimi and I would last forever.

  “Oh,” cringes the girl, “I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

  Don’t even ask how I wound up telling a total stranger the entire story of Jimi Steele, Blackwell Disco and the curse of the flaky buttmunch. And all about Joel, who began sounding a bit like Superman when I described him. It all just spilled out. What is it about the ladies loo that makes you do that? It just felt good to get it off my chest.

  “And Jimi’s never even told me that he loves me,” I sigh, scooshing myself with complimentary perfume.

  “Ooh, that’s cold, man,” says the girl. “Well, you’re right to teach him a lesson.”

  “S’pose,” I sigh.

  “We have to go now, Ammy,” instructs a fierce lady with a clipboard looming impatiently beside us. “We’re totally behind schedule.”

  “Fine,” the girl says, turning to me. Her eyes are astoundingly green.

  “Well, better split. Gotta go to work ... hey, but if you ask me, sounds like the jimi one needs another chance.”

  “D’you think?” I say.

  “Well ... yes and no!” She laughs. “Probably yes. I mean, he sounds like he’s being a real doofus ... but it’s all pretty regular guy stuff. Guys do stupid things. They forget about parties they’ve arranged to take you to sometimes. Cut him some slack, eh?”

  “Hmmm, maybe you’re right,” I say, noticing the Celtic tattoo spilling out of the bottom of her trouser leg.

  “Hey, actually,” she says, “forget that, don’t listen to me. My man problems are world famous,” she groans, sweeping out the door. “See ya, kiddo!”

  “Bye!” I smile.

  Of course, I don’t feel one iota clearer about my love life. But she was lovely, whoever she was.

  totally over the top

  It’s almost 10 P.M. on Sunday, and we’re standing in the wings of Astlebury’s world-famous Hexagon Stage. The Kings of Kong went down like an absolute storm. I’ve never heard people cheer so loud and stamp their feet for an encore. The LBD got so wrapped up in the Kings’ post-gig celebrations (and yes, Curtis really is just as lush up close, even if he does need to use stronger deodorant) that we ended up missing Amelia Annanova’s set completely! I never even set eyes on her! Aggh, never mind ... it was worth the sacrifice just for the pleasure of seeing the Kings’ drummer, Benny Lake, striding into the VIP area, stripping his T-shirt off and then asking us ever so kindly, batting his big brown eyes, if we’d mind finding him a beer. Phwoaaar!

  But now it’s time for Astlebury’s star attraction. There must be well over 100,000 people waiting for Spike’s performance. Back here in the wings, Spike’s been pacing nervously back and forth for the last twenty minutes, praying, crossing himself and sticking his head round the side of the stage, to sneak a glimpse of the crowd, before leaping up and down excitedly, retching with nerves. On stage, an army of hairy technicians fiddle with mike stands and snare drums. As well as Spike’s entourage, Lewis, Fenella et al., we’re also in the pleasant company of Daphne Swan and Rex, who seem totally starstruck and more than a little bewildered by the events of the last hour.

  Incidentally, Rex isn’t an evil giant after all. He’s just a rather nice, overly tall hippie dude from Brighton who must have terrible trouble getting trousers to fit him. Never mind, though, he’s never stopped grinning since the second we called to say that not only was Daphne a VIP, but we’d found a spare gold wristband for her new beau if he wanted to come along too. It turned out that Caleb, Spike’s brother, had been chucked by his girlfriend the night before so she’d not be using hers.

  “What a piece of luck!” Fleur said mischievously, eyeing the gorgeous Caleb before nicking his extra gold band and running off to find Daphne.

  “How do you girls do it?” laughs Daphne, gazing at the crowd, utterly flummoxed.

  “It’s just a fluke,” giggles Claude. “Every time!”

  I feel totally chundersome just looking at this huge crowd. How Spike manages to walk out there and actually sing with a zillion sets of eyes drilling into him beats me; he certainly earns that gold turbo-bubble button.

  “Hey, look, Ronnie, Twiggy’s getting a right telling off,” whispers Claude, pointing over to the comer where Twiggy Starr’s being slapped, poked and thoroughly harangued by Fenella.

  “Just do your job like you’re supposed to!” Fenella is barking. “You’re not irreplaceable, y’know. I could find nine other clones who look pretty with a guitar by the end of the week, if I chose to!”

  “Oh, pur-lease, Fenny-wenn,” Twiggy smirks. “Shut your trap, will you? You’re all gob. Just try getting rid of me. I’m part of the furniture around here, dear.”

  Fenella twists on her crocodile-skinned stiletto heel and goose-steps away, l
eaving Twiggy’s best mate Spike to have a quieter word.

  “Look, you have got all those chords for ‘Lost’ straight in your head, haven’t you?” asks Spike. “You didn’t exactly nail it in rehearsals, did you?”

  “It’s all fine,” says Twiggy, quite believably.

  “And what about ‘Windmill’—you’ve rehearsed that bridge again, haven’t you?”

  “S’all up there,” sighs Twiggy, tapping the side of his head.

  “It better be, Twiggy,” warns Spike. “We’re going out live on BBC1. And we’re getting syndicated worldwide by MTV2! And ...”

  “You worry too much,” scoffs Twiggy, then belches loudly.

  Spike wanders away, shaking his head.

  “Five minutes, Spike!” yells Fenella. “C’mon, people, let’s start moving! Where’s Foxton? Where’s the drummer?”

  “Ere,” grunts a wide-eyed guy with a bald head who’s been in and out of the loo seven times in the last half hour. He must have a weak bladder.

  “And where are the backing singers! Are they still in wardrobe?” screams Fenella. “Lewis, round everyone up now! Now!”

  Suddenly, the entire Spike Saunders road show emerges, guitarists, backing singers, synth players, percussionists, all swigging from bottles of water, practicing scales, pacing about nervously, hugging each other and wishing each other the best of luck. They all look quite terrified as they gather around Spike for a little pep talk.

  “I just want to say good luck to everyone,” Spike says. “There’s no need to be nervous, they sound like a friendly bunch. Let’s just do what we always do and we’ll be more than okay. I’ve got every faith in you lot ... that’s why I pay you so much!”

  Everyone groans at Spike, albeit highly affectionately.

  “We can do this, can’t we?” he says. “Right?”

  “Right!” choruses the gang.

  “So, let’s do it then!” he grins, and behind him the vast audience begins to chant an unmistakable rowdy chorus.

  “One Spike Saunders! There’s only one Spike Saunders! There’s only one Spike Saaaaaunders!”

  Gulp! I’d be out the back gate hiding in a hedge by now.

  Spike gives Fenella a small nod. Fenella winks, then gives a thumbs-up to a woman in a headset, who nudges an old rocker who’s acting as emcee. Taking a deep breath, the emcee picks up his silver microphone and begins yelling in an excitable, raspy manner, “Well, helllllloooooo, Astlebury!”

  The roar almost knocks me off my feet!

  “You’ve all been very patient,” he says. “But here’s the person you’ve all been waiting for! Let’s make some noise for one of the biggest-selling recording artists this side of Jupiter! Are you ready for Mr. Spike Saunders?”

  The noise is deafening!

  “Well, here he is!”

  Spike’s drummer takes the stage first, running out and jumping behind his kit, kicking off with a rather terse, forceful beat on his foot pedal. The crowd immediately begins clapping above their heads, in syncro, as Spike’s entire band rushes onto the stage, finding their positions, gradually adding voice and texture to the noise. Wow! Then, just as things can’t get any more electrifying, Spike Saunders sort of swaggers onto the stage, raising the biggest, most rapturous cheer of the weekend, punching the air to the beat as he goes.

  “Where’s Twiggy?” shouts Claude.

  “Over there!” I scream as Twiggy stumbles out of the shadows, swigging from a bottle that doesn’t look much like gently carbonated Peruvian water to me.

  “Rock ’n’ roll! Twenty-four seven!” shouts Twiggy to, well, no one in particular really. With around five million folk worldwide watching with growing horror, Twiggy slings his guitar over his chest and begins a clumsy sprint to the center of the Astlebury stage, strumming the opening chords of “Lost” as he goes. The audience roars as Twiggy makes a grand entrance, dropping theatrically to his knees and skidding right across the waxed floor with his tongue hanging out ...

  ... grossly misjudging the size of the stage and plummeting headfirst fifteen feet into the space behind the safety barrier, almost squashing a Rolling Stone photographer as he falls.

  Oh my God!

  A morbid silence sweeps across the crowd. The large screens on either side of the stage are showing images of Twiggy, lying in a lifeless heap as the Rolling Stone photographer sits up, looking dazed, before attempting to resuscitate the guitarist. The guy checks the pulse on Twiggy’s neck, looking panicked as he yells across in horror to the oncoming medics, “I think he’s dead!”

  Chapter 8

  situation vacant

  Of course Twiggy Starr wasn’t dead.

  He was just concussed.

  But he probably wished he was dead, because if Fenella Tack’s expression was any measure of her incandescent rage, she was clearly going to beat the last remnants of life from him with a Miu Miu clutch-purse the second he reached the medical tent.

  “Get that stinking carcass out of my sight, and fetch me another guitarist noooooooooow!” Fenella screams as three security guards wrestle Twiggy’s floppy torso away. Spike watches on in utter dumbfoundment, all his cocky swagger drained away.

  “Find the stand-in guitarist!” bellows Fenella, looking like a velociraptor in Chanel lipstick.

  “But there isn’t a stand-in guitarist,” shouts Spike.

  Fenella’s eyes narrow to slits; if her brow was indeed capable of movement despite the high levels of Botox administered to it, it would certainly be very furrowed.

  “What do you mean no stand-in? Have you gone berserk!?” squeals Fenella. “You better be kidding me, Spike. This fiasco will cost our insurers twenty-eight million dollars to cover if we pull the gig after ten minutes!”

  “I know ... but ... ,” shouts Spike.

  “This is Silver Shard’s premier chance to promote Prize to an estimated two hundred and twenty-three million people worldwide! And you’re telling me we’ve got no guitarist?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” says Spike, practically blubbering. “Twiggy’s the only person who knows the new songs.”

  “I’m not hearing this!” explodes Fenella. “You put your entire trust in that washed-up, bourbon-addled burnout! Are you out of your tiny mind, Spike?”

  Fenella looks like she’s going to leap on Spike’s chest and rip his heart out with her bare hands.

  “Yes, I trusted him, Fenella! He’s my best friend,” cries Spike. “He’s been having a rough patch, but I didn’t think he’d do this. I’ll get him into rehab! I’ll sort him out!”

  “That doesn’t help us now!” squeals Fenella.

  As the pair squabble, the sounds of growing unrest sweep the crowd.

  “Spike! Spike! Spike!” the crowd is beginning to chant, accompanied by the obligatory throwing of bottles.

  “We’ll be back as soon as possible!” shouts the panicked emcee, appealing for calm, as Lewis the P.A. pushes Spike and Fenella into the wings where the LBD are all standing, watching the events in dismay. In seconds the yelling, posturing pair are joined by an army of sweating technicians and suited and booted record company executives, screaming about losing amounts of money so vast that Spike looks like he’s going to vomit.

  “But there isn’t a replacement guitarist!” screams Spike for the seventy-fifth time at a rotund toadish record company exec who is sucking on a Cuban cigar. “Nobody else knows the flipping new songs! Can’t anyone hear me?”

  And that’s when I have one of those eureka moments.

  “Claude! Fleur!” I shout. “Come on! We have to speak to Spike!”

  Both girls stare at me in horror, but I grab their hands, dragging them with me into the growing dogfight, fighting my way closer and closer to Spike, although every time I get close enough to speak, one of the many record execs grabs me by the waist and chucks me back out of the circle again.

  “It’s not autograph time, little girlie!” shouts Fenella, clicking her fingers for assistance. “Security, chuc
k these three girls out!”

  “Noooooo!” I scream as loudly as my lungs will let me, stamping the foot of the black-shirted ogre who’s lifting me up by my thong. “Spike! Listen to me just for a second! I know someone who can play!”

  Spike freezes and stares straight at me. “What?” he says, his face softening. “How? This isn’t a joke, is it, Ronnie, babe?”

  “No! It’s not a joke!” I persist, trying to remove my thong from my butt crack. “I met a guy who knows the whole of your album Prize off by heart!”

  “That’s impossible, Ronnie,” argues Spike. “It’s not released for weeks!”

  “It is possible! He ripped it off RippaCD.com!” I say. “Please believe me, Spike!”

  “It’s true, Spike!” shouts Claude, jumping up and down. “I’ve heard him too!”

  “He’s dead good!” says Fleur, nodding wildly.

  “Er ... okay ... ,” says Spike, his eyes widening. “I mean ... wow! Where is this guy? Can I meet him?”

  “Yes! He’s ... he’s ... er, out there somewhere,” I say, pointing ridiculously to the umpteen squillion people in the baying crowd.

  Talk about finding a needle in a haystack!

  Spike looks at us like we’re insane ... but we’re also his only chance.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find him!” shouts Fleur, pointing at the emcee, who is floundering in the corner with his microphone. “But we need that guy’s help.”

  Fleur darts across and begins whispering in the ear of the emcee, who raises one eyebrow, takes a deep breath and begins to yell into his mike.

  “Hellllloooo, Astlebury! Errrr, we now have a vital announcement for one special audience member this evening! Could a Mr. Joel ... er, Joel what”—The emcee turns and shouts to us, “What’s his second name?”

  We don’t know!

  “Joel ... who drove here in a yellow van with graffiti on it!” says Fleur.

  “And he’s a lifeguard. A lifeguard who wants to be a brain surgeon!” I add.

  “And he’s got a best friend called Damon with a shaven head!” shouts Claude helpfully.

  All this surreal info reverberates around the fields as the mystified crowd dissolves in giggles before looking to see if mystery man Joel is standing beside them.