Live and Fabulous!

by Grace Dent

  “So, er, right, if that’s you, Joel, please make your way to the VIP enclosure. Spike Saunders needs you!”

  “Just give us five minutes!” I shout to Spike, praying with all my heart that Joel heard the call-out. But let’s face it—he could be anywhere.

  Claude, Fleur and I sprint down the stage steps, then spill through the VIP enclosure and out of the marquee down to the main gates. As we run, Claude’s attempting to call Damon using a phone number she has scrawled in lipstick on an old paper cup in the bottom of her handbag.

  “Agggghh, it’s going straight to voice mail!” she yells.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” I shout. “Is there, like, any chance he heard?”

  “Don’t fret, Ronnie,” screams Fleur. “Look! There are people at the gate already!”

  Fleur’s right. There are tons of folk at the gate already. About fifty chancers trying to blag their way into the VIP area.

  “But I’m Joel! It’s true!” a guy with buck teeth and blond dreadlocks is shouting. “Let me in now!”

  “Ignore him,” a guy with a purple turban rants. “I’m Joel! Spike needs me to play! I’ve just been parking my yellow van, that’s why I’m late!”

  “Right, everyone, butt out,” a black guy in camouflage trousers and a trilby hat is yelling. “I’m the real Joel, you’re all just imposters!”

  “Oh, no!” I groan. Now we’re really done for.

  As we approach the rumpus, a hulking, ginger-haired security guy with hands like La-Z-Boy armchairs and a nose like a strawberry is keeping the interlopers at bay.

  Haven’t we seen him somewhere before?

  “It’s Hagar!” gasps Claude. “Hagar, the really quite Horrible! The guy who took our tickets on Friday!”

  “The one who chose not to point out that we had VIP ones!” growls Fleur.

  But just as Fleur opens her gob to say something ungracious, we spot someone who makes our spirits soar. Floundering among a sea of fake wannabees is the real Joel! Joel, with hazel eyes, brown hair and perfect teeth, flapping his arms and jumping up and down! Beside him, a highly irate Damon is trying to tell Hagar the truth.

  “Joel!” I shout, but he can’t hear me.

  “We’re here, Joel!” shouts Claude.

  “Oh, hurray! You’ve arrived!” squeaks a rather bedraggled girl looming up beside us. “Everyone, look! Ronnie and Claude are here! They’ll sort this mess out!”

  “Er, yes, I suppose we will,” I say, slightly confused, turning to shout at Joel again. “Joooooel!”

  “You look great, by the way. Love the outfit!” simpers the girl, who is covered in mud and grass stains.

  Hang on a minute. I’d know that sickening voice anywhere!

  “Panama ... er, Goodyear?” gasps Claude. Panama looks virtually unrecognizable! The elements have not been kind to her.

  “Yes! It’s me! Hello!” squeals Panama, spotting Fleur glowering at her. “Oh, and you’ve found Fleur too! What a relief! I was really worried!”

  Things are now getting far beyond weird. I take a step back from Panama, who smells exactly like the porta-loos.

  “What do you want?” I say, rather unkindly. I’ve got bigger priorities than chatting with Panama Bogwash.

  “Well, I saw you girls up on stage,” smiles Panama, “and, y’know, heard the call-out for Joel ... and I just wanted to swing by and say hello!”

  “Hmmm ... nice of you,” growls Fleur, pulling me away. “Come on, Ronnie, we’ve no time for this.”

  Panama keeps on smiling, occasionally gazing past me into the VIP area where she’d no doubt kill for a hot shower, a Hazel Valenski restyle and a chance to hang out with the Kings of Kong, Amelia Annanova and Spike.

  Not a snowball’s chance in hell! I think.

  “C’mon, Ronnie! Hagar needs to know who the real Joel is!” shouts Claude.

  In the middle of the scrum, Joel is pleading with the ginger giant from the bottom of his heart. “But I drove the yellow van! And I’m a lifeguard!” Joel is shouting, flashing his Charlton-Jessop municipal swimming baths ID card. “Please believe me! I know all of Spike’s new songs off by heart!”

  “ ’Course you do, kiddiewink,” chuckles Hagar cruelly, putting his fingers to his mouth theatrically. “So do I. In fact I’m playing one right now ... on my invisible pennywhistle!”

  Hagar blows his invisible instrument sarcastically as Damon pulls Joel away.

  “Come on, Joel, man,” grumbles Damon. “We’re wasting our time.”

  “You’re not!” I squeal, summoning up superhuman strength and elbowing my way into the center of the group.

  “Ronnie! Ronnnnnnnie!” beams Joel, throwing his arms around me. “Is ... is ... this for real?”

  “Yeah, it’s for real!” I say. “You have to come and meet Spike now! Come with us! And you too, Damon, you’ve got to come and give him some support!”

  “Oh, hurray!” says Panama, clapping her grubby hands. “A happy ending!”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” sniggers Hagar, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no! It’s not happening. Not on my watch. You know the rules: no VIP passes, no entrance. No exceptions.”

  At this point I almost collapse into a heap on the ground with frustration, but Claudette Cassiera isn’t playing ball at all.

  “Right! Ooooooh, this is just about the flipping limit!” Claude yells. “Now then, Mr. Hagar ... Hagar ... What is your second name, incidentally?”

  “It’s Windybottom actually,” growls Hagar, daring anyone to laugh.

  Jeez, no wonder he has issues, I think.

  “Rightio, Mr. Windybottom, sir,” continues Claude. “Now, just you listen to me. I’ve about had my fill of your antics!”

  Hagar sneers at her, but it’s definitely a fake sneer, because he actually looks quite shocked.

  “Now, I don’t suppose you remember me and my friends,” continues Claude, “but on our way through the gates on Friday you did us three ladies a heinous disservice!”

  “Pgh, I’ve never set eyes on you before,” shrugs Hagar, but a small flicker of recognition passes his face and he looks sheepish.

  “You knew we had special VIP tickets! You just didn’t tell us, did you?” hollers Claude. “I ended up missing Carmella Dupris’s after-show party and hanging out with the Kings of Kong till this morning! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Hagar. That was one low-down dirty trick!”

  Hagar looks more than a soupçon guilty.

  “And now, I am appealing to you,” says Claude, “as a fellow human being, to redeem yourself in the eyes of the LBD and God, and do the right thing!”

  It’s one of Claude’s jedi mind tricks again, I think to myself.

  “You know full well Spike Saunders needs these boys up on stage now,” Claude screams, poking Hagar’s chest. “We need to save Astlebury. And it’s within your power to do it!”

  Claude takes her voice much quieter now. “Because what I think you need to ask yourself now, Mr. Hagar Windybottom, is, Are you a sinner or a winner?”

  “What?” asks Hagar.

  “Are you a goodie or a baddie?”

  Hagar thinks for a second. His eyes look a little red rimmed.

  “I’m a goodie,” Hagar says petulantly, seeming to have shrunk by about two feet during Claude’s verbal onslaught.

  “Well, that’s what I wanted to hear,” whispers Claude, reaching upward and placing one hand on his plump shoulder. “So will you let the boys in?”

  Hagar takes a deep breath, then signals for the VIP gate to be opened. The boys run past, whooping and cheering.

  Hurray! We’ve only gone and done it!

  Of course, we’re forgetting one small hiccup. We seem to have acquired Panama Goodyear, who has spotted her chance at the open VIP gate and is beginning to stride past.

  “Not her!” Claude shouts at the guards, pointing at Panama. “That girl is not with us!”

  “But I’m their friend!” squeaks Panama, just as her friend from Ga
te A, Boris the raven-haired guard, appears from nowhere. Boris picks Panama up with one hand, by the back of her filthy trousers. Panama’s legs and arms are flapping as she’s carried away.

  “Put me down this instant! I’ll sue you all! Do you hear me?” Panama squeaks. “They’re my friends over there. I need to go in the VIP too!”

  “You’ve never been our friend, Panama,” Claude says firmly. “See you around sometime, eh?”

  “Yeah, ta ta for now, Panama!” I wave.

  As the VIP gate begins to swing shut, Panama’s face turns to pure venom. “You little weasels!” she’s screeching. “As if I’d be seen dead with you anyhow.”

  “Yeah, whatever, Panama,” laughs Claude, clapping her hands excitedly. “Right, Joel, Ronnie, Fleur, Damon, come on! Now! We’ve got to get back to the stage!”

  “Yeah, you certainly do! Get a move on!” yells Hagar, waving one huge hand at us reproachfully as we run off. “Hey, and guys? You all have a good show now, won’t you?”

  With less than a microsecond to spare, we race up the stairs to the stage. Quickly, Spike and Joel are embroiled in a stern negotiation, Joel gesticulating wildly, Spike shaking his head, looking like he’s going to cry. I haven’t a clue what Joel says to convince Spike, but it must be something fantastic, because all of a sudden he turns around to the band with a winning smile plastered right across his face.

  “So it’s a yes?” shouts Joel.

  “Yes, you’re on,” shouts Spike, waving across at a guitar roadie to fetch Joel something to play. Fenella surveys the whole scene with utter horror as Spike picks up his microphone once more and yells above the impatient, roaring crowd, “Right, ladies and gents, on behalf of everybody on stage, I’m very sorry about that little impromptu interval! Now, who says we forget all about that and have a little song?”

  Hurray!

  Fleur wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Well saved, Ronnie!” she laughs.

  “Hey, Betty, Tonita, Marie?” yells Spike to his backing singers. “Can you all shift up a bit? We’ve got three extra bodies we need to squeeze on stage tonight. Now, everybody give a loud Astlebury cheer for the girls who saved Astlebury—Ronnie, Claude and Fleur! I want you to make them feel at home!”

  “What?! Now?!” I splutter as Fleur kicks me onto the stage, dragging Claude behind her. Eeeeeek!

  I try to hide behind the drum kit and the bassist, but to no avail. The whole crowd can see me!

  Aaggghhh, I’m up on the video screens too!

  Helllooooo, Mum!

  “And let me introduce our new guitarist for this evening ... Joel!” shouts Spike.

  Joel, who’s clearly spent a good ten years in his room with a tennis racket practicing for this moment, takes a modest bow while simultaneously rooting a guitar pick from his back pocket.

  “And this one’s called ‘Lost’!” shouts Spike, as Joel replicates every note of the opening bars perfectly.

  Spike exhales audibly as he realizes Joel’s stunning talent.

  This is one of those wondrous, scrummy stay-in-your-heart forever moments. A veritable ocean of faces is watching me as I smash my tambourine against my thigh and howl into a mike that I dearly hope is turned right down. Beside me, Fleur Swan shimmies, shakes and squeezes herself into every BBC1 camera shot, while Claudette Cassiera improvises the lyrics to every verse, wailing harmonies that just don’t fit without giving a hoot ’cos she’s having fun. In the wings, Daphne and Rex are dancing and cheering, accompanied byTabitha Lovelace, Zaza Berry and the whole of Blaze Tribe Five. On the other side Hazel Valenski, SmartBomb and the Midnight Mayhem girls are grooving wildly. Damon’s telling anyone who’ll listen that Joel is his best mate, and the Kings of Kong are gazing on jealously as Spike wins the loudest cheers of the entire weekend. In the shadows, I see Fenella Tack take a tissue from her clutch-purse, quickly dabbing her eyes, then checking to make sure no one noticed.

  Aggghh, this is so much fun!

  How can we be on our seventh song already? Where’s all the time gone to?

  I don’t want to get off stage yet! I can see now why this show-biz lark is so addictive.

  As Spike gently warns the crowd that it’s nearly curfew time, people begin pleading for “Merry-Go-Round,” the song without which no Spike Saunders set could be complete.

  “You know that one, don’t you?” shouts Spike to Joel.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” smiles Joel, as the familiar moving opening bars bring a lump to a million throats.

  Spike chucks back his head and laughs.

  “Okay! You guys know all the words,” he shouts at the crowd. “I’ll just have a rest while you do the work!”

  After two encores (well, we have to keep our public happy!), the LBD tumble off stage, sweating, giggling and panting, where we’re passed warm fluffy towels and Peruvian mineral water by Lewis. Lewis quickly escorts us all back to the VIP marquee. En route, we pass by some mesh barriers separating us from the Astlebury crowd. Bizarrely enough, people begin bashing on the fence as we go past, trying to touch. People are begging for autographs! Just like we’re real superstars! Of course, Fleur is quickly scribbling huge swirly signatures for her fans, while Claude has been dragged away to do an impromptu interview with Radio One. Staggering along with me and Joel is Spike Saunders, giggling like a maniac at what’s just occurred.

  “Thanks, Ronnie! You really did me proud,” he says.

  “You’re very welcome,” I say, brimming with happiness.

  “And as for you, Joel, well, what can I say?” says Spike, shaking his head. “I’m speechless.”

  “Anytime,” says Joel proudly.

  As Fenella sweeps Spike away for a press conference, Joel and I are left alone in the walkway. Joel looks down at me slightly mushily, placing his arm around my shoulder.

  “You’ve ... you’ve changed my whole life, Ronnie,” he says. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Oh, well, y’know.” I blush. “Anybody would have done the same.”

  Oh, dear, I think he’s going to go all sloppy on me!

  “No, shh ... listen! You’re special, Ronnie.You’re amazing!” he says, sounding quite choked. “You’re beautiful as well as amazing!”

  “Ugghhh gnnnggn!” I blush. “Well, I’ve got a lot of makeup on today.”

  “Not just beautiful on the outside, Ronnie. On the inside too,” Joel says, looking a bit misty eyed.

  Right, I have to shut him up now.

  “Woooh now! Hold yer horses, Joel!” I laugh nervously. “You’re beginning to sound like a Spike Saunders song.”

  “Flipping heck!” says Joel, catching himself. “I am, aren’t I? Things have all gone to my head a bit, haven’t they?”

  We both stand, staring at each other. Joel’s arms are wrapped around my neck. My head’s resting on his chest. I can feel his heart thumping.

  Okay, I suppose this is the point where we’re meant to snog, just like Fleur Swan has instructed me. Somehow, it doesn’t feel quite right, but I look up, closing my eyes anyhow and wait for the “power of love” to overcome me.

  And I wait ... and wait. But Joel’s got his eyes closed, waiting too!

  “Joel!” yells Claude, springing from somewhere to unintentionally ruin the moment. “Fenella says she wants you at the press conference now! E! News Live and Fox want to ask you some questions!”

  “Me? Really? Wow!” says Joel, rushing away, leaving me loitering under the clear moonlit sky, not quite sure what happened.

  “Ronnie? Are you okay?” asks Claude, blissfully ignorant as to what she’s just interrupted.

  “I’m beautiful, Claude,” I say. “In fact, I’m beautiful on the outside as well as in.”

  “What?” she says.

  “Oh, nothing, Claude, just a load of old bobbins I’ve just heard,” I laugh. “Hey! Shall we go back in the VIP and lord it up a bit?”

  “Just try to stop me!” says Claude, grabbing my arm and whisking me along. “We need to celebrate ... an
d I mean celebrate big style! We, like, totally saved Astlebury! The dangerous bambinos came up trumps yet again!” Claude natters on and on breathlessly. “I mean, how do we top this one, Ronnie? It seems like you and Fleur and I can do absolutely anything when we put our minds to it!”

  But then Claude’s face drops, changing in a flash to total and utter dumbfoundment.

  “Oh ... My ... God!” she groans.

  “What?” I say.

  “It was him,” she splutters. “It really was him after all! I thought I was seeing things at the skate park yesterday ... But it was him!”

  “Who? What?” I say. Claude looks quite startled.

  “Him!” Claude repeats, swinging me around to see who’s behind me. As I spot his piercing blue eyes, staring at me through the mesh, I almost feel my knees buckle right under me.

  “Jimi Steele?!” I shout. “What in the devil’s name are you doing here!?”

  barriers

  No, I’m not hallucinating.

  It really is jimi.

  Yes, “my” Jimi.

  Staring at me through the fence, reminding me slightly of when Mrs. Perkin from our local store placed lost teddy bears in the shop window, hoping owners might pass by and reclaim them.

  Abandoned and vulnerable.

  Oh, and mud caked and exhausted looking too. It’s safe to say Jimi Steele has not gleaned the benefits of a Hazel Valenski restyle. He looks like the Wildman of Borneo.

  “And who was that?!” emerges as Jimi’s opening gambit. “That guitarist dude! The brown-haired Clark Kent looky-likey! Have you been snogging him? What’s going on there?!”

  Oh, well, this is just the absolute limit, this is!

  “What do you mean?” I shout. “What’s it got to do with you, mud-boy?! And what are you doing here anyway!?”

  “I followed you here! Because you wouldn’t speak to me. You stupid woman!” he yells.

  “You followed me? Gnnnngnnnn!” I roar. “Well, you’ve found me now, haven’t you? I was singing on stage with Spike Saunders! What have you got to say to that? Anything you’ve thought up yourself ... or stuff Naz and Aaron have told you to say?”