Poppy was pulled through the backstage door by Rick Perez, and it shut behind her with a clang, drowning out the sound of the desperate girls. She was in a gray-painted corridor, leading off to wide open doors that looked like regular offices. It didn’t seem all that glamorous. But here she was, surrounded by the members of Dark Angel, and Rick Perez had one hand proprietorially on her shoulder.
Zach Mason, the lead singer, checked her out, then grinned at Perez.
“Nice,” he said. “Cutest chick in the place.”
Poppy could hardly breathe.
“Look,” said Pete the guitarist, “she’s blushing. I don’t know when I last saw a chick blush.”
Rick Perez looked down at Poppy.
“Hi,” he said.
Poppy half whispered, “Hi.”
“Would you like to get a drink?” Perez said. “We’ve got a cooler of beers and shit in the dressing room.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Poppy said politely.
Perez stared at her and snorted with laughter. “You’re a riot. Come on. This way.”
Six
Poppy followed Rick into a small room, crammed with people.
The walls were covered with graffiti, every spare inch thick with marker pen; obscenities, band names, complaints about the showers, fuck-yous to the promoters of the gigs. There were a couple of ratty old black leather couches, covered with slashes, the rest of the band sprawled across them with their friends—longhaired dudes, talking loudly, drunk, chopping out lines of coke on mirrors, or whatever flat surface came to hand. There was a large plastic cooler in one corner, full of ice and cans of soda and beer. On a table there were the remains of a buffet—metal platters of cheese and fruit and bits of sandwiches. Not very rock ’n’ roll. There was a more recently set up table with bottles of vodka, packets of cranberry juice, and plastic cups; it wasn’t quite so wrecked. Poppy realized that someone had only put the alcohol there once the band had gone onstage. No need to risk a drunk group until after the performance. Hovering around the drinks table, primping their hair in the grimy dressing-room mirror, laughing and pretending to talk to one another, were the girls.
Poppy tried and failed not to stare.
They were the same as the chicks outside, but they had the edge on them. Dressed in exactly the same trashy style: skirts as short as belts, lace, bras, leather, heels and studs; exactly the same long blond hair, full-on makeup, and with lots of flesh on display. But these girls were better-looking and acted a little less desperate. They carried nothing suggestive of autographs; they drank the band’s liquor and nibbled on their celery sticks and acted like they had a right to be there.
“What are you drinking?”
Rick was talking to her again. Poppy couldn’t quite believe it. She was here and she was talking to the bassist!
Suddenly, the crowded, filthy little dressing room seemed like the coolest place on earth.
“I’ll take a vodka and cranberry juice,” Poppy said, “thanks.” She sat down on an unoccupied corner of one of the couches and looked at him expectantly.
Rick Perez grinned and went to mix her a drink. At the makeshift bar, the girls elegantly draped themselves over him, smiling right into his eyes, as though Poppy didn’t exist.
Poppy was picking up the rules of the game. It was the jungle in here, survival of the fittest. Or the prettiest. They didn’t give a damn about her; several of the chicks were eyeing her with disdain …
But Rick came back over to her and handed her her drink. Poppy took refuge in a big gulp, then spluttered.
He laughed. “Too strong for you?”
“You could say that.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Seventeen,” Poppy lied.
“I’m twenty-two.”
“That’s cool,” Poppy said, trying to be sophisticated.
Rick settled back on the couch and casually draped one arm across her back. His fingers rested lightly on her shoulder, and the touch was electric. Poppy saw the other girls gazing at her, their mascaraed eyes narrowing in loathing. She felt an instant thrill of triumph. He preferred her, he’d taken her right out of the crowd.
This rocks, Poppy thought.
“I saw you out there,” he said.
“I know,” Poppy said confidently. She grinned. “I saw you too.”
“Did you like the band?”
This question she felt comfortable with. She untensed slightly. “I think you guys really have something.”
“They ‘have something,’” said one of the blondes at the bar. “Well, that’s nice.”
The guitarist glanced Poppy’s way.
“Dark Angel are, like, totally the best band ever,” cooed the chick with whom he was intertwined.
Poppy rolled her eyes. “No they’re not. Come on.”
Rick Perez laughed again, this time in disbelief. Poppy realized a second too late that the entire room was now staring at her. It also dawned on her that backstage girls weren’t meant to venture opinions, unless they were along the lines of: “You guys are God.”
“Did she even like us?”
Zach Mason was asking the question of Rick. As though Poppy was his property and he was responsible for her big mouth. Mason had two long-limbed beauties, both redheads, draped against him, one in each arm. One of the chicks was resting her head drunkenly against his chest, the other had her shirt halfway unbuttoned, with a white lace bra peeking out.
“No, I did. I mean, I thought you guys put on an excellent show. But the PA was too loud for the melodies and you look like you need a bigger stage to run around in, and the lighting guy was messing up in that fast number—”
“Fighting fire,” Jason, the drummer, said.
“Yeah, like you know about stage shows,” said the redhead with her buttons undone. She pouted at the singer. “Why is she even here?”
The singer ignored her and tilted his full glass slightly toward Poppy. “He did mess it up.”
“He didn’t light me during my fucking solo,” said Carl, the guitarist, sullenly.
“OK, Sharon Osbourne,” said Rick Perez, “and what did you like about it?”
“All the songs and the way you work the crowd,” Poppy said simply.
Mason smiled broadly. “She’s cool. Not to mention the hottest chick in the place.”
“I know,” said Perez, with the air of a connoisseur.
The girls at the bar scowled and headed for the other members of the band, like mosquitoes homing in on a patch of bare flesh.
Poppy looked into her drink, taking another slug. She had sounded really stupid, she thought. Why couldn’t she just shut up and be cool? After all, he was sooo gorgeous …
Her watch caught her eye. It said eleven-thirty.
“Shit. Fuck. I have to go,” she said.
“Already? You just got here.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I really gotta leave.” She jumped up from the couch.
“I don’t even have your phone number,” Perez said, blinking. He couldn’t believe it. She was blowing him off?
“Here.” Poppy wrote it down for him, feeling miserable. Zach Mason and the others were staring at her again. She felt like a little girl.
“Goodbye, Cinderella,” said the blonde bitchily. She waggled just the tips of her blood-red fingernails in a snide farewell. “Better get going, before you turn into a pumpkin.”
Poppy blushed again and hastily let herself out of the dressing room. She barreled through the corridors and out into the club. It was empty now; the girls had dispersed, giving up hope of getting backstage. The club lights were up; the place which had seemed so magical and rock ’n’ roll was now dirty, squalid, and messy, with crushed plastic cups and other debris all over the floor. A side door was slightly ajar, and she pushed against the heavy metal bar and walked out on to the sidewalk.
It wasn’t even midnight, and Sunset wasn’t done. The metal-heads and bikers and whores were out in full force now, the st
reet lights washed over the scene, the clubs glittered neon under the movie-poster billboards …
But Poppy was done. She was hella late, as Metallica would put it. She got lucky and grabbed a cab, which drove her back to the Hollywood Hills. Conchita’s lights were on, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now. Poppy threw ten bucks at the cabbie and jumped out, grabbing the door of the Porsche and putting it into gear. The front door opened and Conchita came out in a pink housecoat, lace flapping, fat arms waving.
“Signora Poppy, what you doin’?”
Poppy wound down the window. “I’m OK, Conchita, don’t say anything, OK? Please?”
Before the housekeeper could answer, Poppy screeched forward out of the gate, blasting off down the hill and on to Sunset. Oh, shit. At least there wasn’t traffic, not to speak of, this late at night. At the lights she peeled off her jacket; at the next lights, her lace hose. If she made it back before Mom and Dad, she’d have, like, three seconds to change. She breathed into her hands—that wasn’t too bad, vodka didn’t smell, and she hadn’t had that much Jack Daniel’s. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get away with it—
She finally turned in through the wrought-iron gates and—
Busted.
Oh, shit. Her parents’ car was parked right there in the driveway. The lights were on, and she could see her mother pacing up and down in the living room, talking into a hands-free phone and gesticulating wildly. The front door was wrenched open and her father came charging out. Poppy hastily stuffed the fishnets into her jacket pocket.
“Poppy!”
Her mother dropped the phone and came racing out after her husband. Oy, they’re so melodramatic, Poppy thought. Look at them. Or not. She quailed at her dad’s face.
“What—what—where the hell have you been?” He reached into the car and started shaking her shoulders. “Damn it to hell! And what are you wearing? You look like a hooker! It’s that goddamn devil music again, isn’t it!”
“Poppy! Oh, Poppy!” her mom was wailing. “Are you all right? My baby!” She looked Poppy over tearfully, ascertained she was all in one piece, then started to scream with rage. “What are you wearing! My daughter, she should go out looking like some tramp! We trusted you! You betrayed us!”
“It’s that music. Only drunks and junkies like that filthy punk music,” growled her father.
“You’re grounded forever!”
“Mom—be reasonable—”
“Forever!” her father bellowed. “Don’t even say a word to your mother, young lady! Get the hell in the house!”
“Language, honey,” said her mom, automatically.
Mr. Allen turned a baleful eye on his daughter.
“Just wait till I’m through with you,” he said. “You’re in my house, you will abide by my rules.”
Seven
“Well, what do we have here?”
Daisy froze. Oh no, help. She had been so lost in her story she hadn’t heard Miss Crawford’s footsteps. The old cow was renowned for having specially soft leather soles on all her shoes, so that nobody heard her sneaking around the dorms at night. She managed to catch more girls smoking or being in each other’s cubicles after lights out than any other teacher.
Plus, she hated Daisy.
I should have been paying attention, Daisy thought, her pudgy face flushing.
Too late.
Her teacher snatched up the red-covered rough book and started to read Daisy’s hastily scrawled biro aloud, in a nasty singsong voice.
“Chapter One.” She frowned, her bushy brow contracting down at Daisy. The rest of the class stared. “My, my, how thrilling! Finding the English classics boring, Miss Markham has decided to give us all the benefit of her own creations!”
The girls were all holding their breath, watching the scene with horrified fascination.
“Emily McCloud shivered in the cold Highland air,” Miss Crawford read sarcastically. “She wasn’t at all sure about this. After all, she had never met any of her British cousins, and this Rory was only a distant relative. Scotland was freezing when you were used to L.A. sunshine. But her mother had insisted, and so, here she was. It was an honor for Emily to be invited to this ball. Mom was determined that her only daughter should make a splash at the castle.
“Castle. The very word gave Emily a chill. How do you behave at a place like that? The closest Emily had ever come to a castle was the toy one at Disneyland.”
Miss Crawford gave a sarcastic laugh. “Honestly, Daisy. If you’re going to get a detention, at least make it for something worthwhile. Not this kind of trash. Maybe if you paid more attention in my classes, you might actually learn to write something people wanted to read.”
Daisy bowed her head. Of course it was no good. What had she been thinking? Now the entire fourth form had heard her pathetic attempt at a trashy novel.
“It’s so bad, it reminds me of Judith Krantz,” Miss Crawford added, in a final, stinging putdown. “Detention for you and two more demerits for Sackville House.”
She tossed the rough book back at Daisy, who hastily put it away and opened up her copy of As You Like It.
She was glad she could hide the sparkle in her eyes.
Yes! Miss Crawford thought she wrote like Judith Krantz!
As the class filed dutifully out, Victoria shoving Daisy meanly because she’d got Sackville two more demerits, some of the other girls looked at her with keen interest.
“So,” said Arabella, curious despite herself, “what happens with this Rory bloke? Does she fall in love with him?”
“Well, he’s a laird,” Daisy said, “and he meets her and he doesn’t know who she is and he laughs at her because she’s a tourist. Then they meet again at his castle for the ball and when she realizes he was the one who made fun of her in Edinburgh she runs away.”
“Like Cinderella,” Arabella said, breathlessly.
Isobel Soames said proudly, “Daisy read me the next bit. She’s trying to get to the airport, but there’s a big storm and she’s stuck in Scotland.”
“I want to read it!” said Arabella.
Victoria hit her. “No you don’t. Some silly story by fat Daisy.”
“God, you’re a bitch, Vicky,” Isobel said.
“I do want to read it,” Arabella said. She went slightly pink from defying Victoria.
“You can,” Daisy said, “but Emma Wilkins asked me first.”
She felt a strange rush of pleasure. Even though Arabella was in her house, she wasn’t mad about the demerits. She just wanted to read Daisy’s story.
Daisy had to work out what happened when the airport told Emily she had to go back into town. Suddenly all she wanted was to get upstairs to her cubicle and start writing again.
“Got to go,” she said, and waddled off.
*
Winter came early that year. There was a great storm which blew down thousands of trees in the south of England, blocking the roads in and out of Withambury. The girls watched the news and oohed and aahed over the dramatic pictures of flooded villages and stranded trains. In their dormitory, the only talk was of the Chatsford Dance—the annual dance with Chatsford School for Boys—and whether or not St. Mary’s would still be able to go.
Daisy prayed the answer was no. All she wanted to do was stay in her room and write her book. She enjoyed winter, watching the green hills outside her window silver over with sugary frost, and the dark clouds scud across an angry white sky. She liked the sparseness of the dark branches and twigs against the bare landscape, and her favorite thing was to be inside, preferably by a log fire, while a severe wind howled and whipped around the roofs outside. There were no fires at St. Mary’s, but there was a lot of warmth. It was perfect writing weather. She tried counting up the words in a line and multiplying the answer by the number of lines on a page, and then the number of the pages she had written. It was mounting up. She might even have done about twenty thousand words by now.
There was a queue to read her stuff. The teasing
she’d been used to all her life had died off a little. Even Victoria just avoided her now.
Daisy didn’t want it to start again.
“Hey.” Isobel walked in and dropped her satchel on the bed. “Have you seen this?”
“What is it?” Daisy said.
Isobel fished out a ripped-up magazine page. “Company magazine is having a book competition. If you win, they give you dinner with an agent and a publisher and Marcia Watson.”
“Really?” Daisy snatched it up. It was true; they wanted a sample chapter, no longer than three thousand words. The top prize was five hundred pounds and the chance to give your manuscript to a real agent. Her heart thudded in her chest. What if she actually won? It could be destiny.
“It has to be typed, though.”
“I could type it. I’m learning in computer club,” Daisy said resolutely.
“You totally should. Everybody thinks it’s awesome,” Isobel said.
Emma burst into their room. “Hi, Daisy. Isobel, guess what! They’ve just announced the Chatsford Dance is on, after all.”
“Awesome,” Isobel said. “I hope Tom Rhys is going to be there. He’s gorgeous.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know,” Isobel said. “Maybe the pink. It’s very figure-hugging.”
“What about you, Daisy?”
“I’m not going. Those dances are so childish.”
“You have to go,” Emma said, horrified. “Otherwise you’ll just look like a total weirdo. Everybody else is going. You can’t be the only girl in the year not to go.”
“I bet I can find you something that’ll look really good on you,” Isobel added, not quite convincingly.
The excitement of the writing competition died away. She was trapped. Emma was right, it would be even worse not to go—so obvious that she was ashamed. Daisy thought about it. She could go, and just find someplace quiet and wait it all out.
“OK,” she said.
“Honestly.” Isobel relished a challenge. “If you put yourself totally in my hands I can make you look really good.”
Daisy caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked and grimy mirror nailed above the small washbasin. She had the beginnings of a double chin and her hair was looking lanky. There was a zit on the side of her nose. Writing had proved so addictive, she’d taken even less care of herself than usual.
Devil You Know Page 7