by Maggi Gibson
‘Tell you what,’ Mum says as Pip leans sleepily against her shoulder. ‘If we all go back now you can light a campfire. I’ll put Pip to bed and you can roast marshmallows.’
With Cordelia’s help21 Mum has the campfire lit in no time at all. Taslima, Megan and I bring out some mats and blankets and cushions from the yurt. Then we light some tea-light candles in little glass yogurt jars Mum cleverly brought from home especially for the purpose, and dot them around. It looks totally magical. As we settle around the brightly crackling fire, we can still hear bands playing.
‘If we gobble much more of these,’ Taslima says solemnly with a half-chewed blackjack stuck on the end of her finger – what’s left of the sweets from Paradiso’s – ‘we’ll end up being REAL sick kids.’ And we all laugh.
While we pig out we talk – about Phoenix Macleod.
‘I think he’s really hot,’ Megan says, lolling lazily on to her back and staring dreamily up at the starry sky.
Taslima laughs. ‘Yeah, Megan. But you think all boys are hot.’
‘Not true,’ Megan protests. ‘I don’t think Twig is, do I?’
‘Just as well,’ Cordelia squeals, her face eerily lit by the flickering flames of the campfire. ‘I mean, he’s your stepbro. Isn’t that illegal?’
‘I like him too,’ Taslima says suddenly.
‘You like Twig?’ I say, alarmed.
‘Course not.’ Taslima chucks a cushion at me. ‘Phoenix Macleod, silly!’
‘Wow!’ Cordelia breathes. ‘Taslima Ankhar, that is the first time I have EVER heard you say you fancy a chico.’
‘I’m NOT saying I fancy him!’ Taslima protests.
‘So?’ Megan says, rolling on to her tummy and looking straight at Taslima. ‘What are you saying?’ Her eyes glitter in the firelight.
‘All I’m saying,’ Taslima says slowly, obviously trying to lie and failing spectacularly, ‘is… he’s… well… attractive…’
‘So you DO fancy him!’ Cordelia whoops. ‘I mean, that’s exactly the same thing. It’s just another way of saying it.’
Taslima looks to me for help.
‘I think Cordelia’s right, Tas,’ I yawn. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe you got a whiff of his fairy-gnomes.’
‘Of his WHAT?’ Megan squeaks, and it’s so obvious she thinks it’s something rude!
‘Phero-mones,’ Taslima explains patiently. ‘An invisible smell that animals and humans emit to attract a mate. And no, Sassy, I’m quite sure I did NOT get a whiff of his pheromones. I just think he seems like a nice boy.’
This sets Cordelia into a fit of giggles. Until she’s laughing so much she coughs up a half-chewed midget gem.
Then Taslima exclaims. ‘But, Sassy, you had a drink from his Hi-Vi, didn’t you?’
‘Uh-oh!’ says Cordelia. ‘Maybe you’re the one who got a whiff of his pheromones!’
‘That would be so-o-o-o cool!’ Cordelia gasps. ‘Celebrity Lovers! You’d probably be all over Hiya! mag. And you could have a fairy-tale wedding, Sass. Can I be bridesmaid? I’d need to wear black, of course.’
‘I do NOT fancy Phoenix Macleod!’ I protest, and chuck a cushion at Cordelia. Then everyone chucks cushions at me. ‘And anyway,’ I gasp, ‘didn’t we all take a swig from his bottle?’
‘Oh no!’ Cordelia laughs. ‘That means we’ve all had a whiff of his fairy-gnomes!’
‘Well, he can’t marry us all,’ Taslima says. ‘That would be polygamy. It’s illegal in the UK.’
We stop throwing cushions to think about this for a minute. The fire crackles and hisses, its bright flames licking the darkness.
‘So I wonder which one he’ll choose, then?’ Cordelia says thoughtfully.
‘I bet it will be you, Cordelia,’ Taslima says. ‘You two would look gorgeous together with your jet-black hair.’
Megan pokes at the fire with a long stick and tiny angry sparks burst up into the air.
‘In that case,’ Cordelia says, plumping a pillow up under her head, ‘he’s going to be bitterly disappointed. Cos I’m not getting married.’
‘What? Never?’ says Taslima, pulling her sleeping bag up around her ears.
‘Never,’ Cordelia yawns.
Just then Mum comes back from the toilets in her long silk dressing gown. I glance across at Kris-with-a-K’s yurt, but thankfully it’s in darkness. He must have taken the hint.
‘OK, girls! Time to get ready for bed!’ Mum says softly.
Soon we’re all settled down inside. I lie and listen to the murmur of voices from the other yurts, the occasional strum of a sleepy guitar in the distance, the breeze rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. I try my hardest, I really do, to think about Twig. I want his face to be the last thing I see before I drift off into sleep.
But try as I might, another face, with dark curls and coal-black eyes, keeps appearing instead.
That night I have a dream.
I’m on the big main stage. Singing. The crowd’s loving me. They’re cheering and whooping and hollering. Taslima and Cordelia and Megan are right down at the front, grinning up at me, and I’m rocking it, singing my heart out.
Then Phoenix comes on stage and the crowd goes wild. We start doing a love duet together. It’s my song, ‘Pinch Me, I Must Be Dreaming’.
Suddenly I realize something’s wrong. The crowd have started to point and laugh.
I look down and see why.
I’m naked. I’ve got absolutely no clothes on! Not a stitch. I run from the stage. Humiliated.
I wake up. I’m in the yurt. It’s not dark any more. Taslima is standing above me, looking down, a puzzled expression on her face.
While everyone else sleeps on, Taslima and I slip out and take Brewster for an early morning walk in the woods. I tell her all about my dream. She listens carefully.
‘I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. It’s pretty much standard anxiety stuff,’ she explains. ‘It’s not about clothes. Not about nakedness of the body.’ We wait while Brewster sniffs a tree, then tries to pee without falling over.
‘You’re worried that you’re not the real thing and that people will literally “see through” you when you go on stage,’ Taslima continues. ‘Everyone who performs gets that at some point.’ She makes a note in her pink notebook. I try to peer over her shoulder to see what she’s written, but she snaps it shut.
‘Do you mind? That’s confidential! See, it says so there.’ She points to the writing on the cover: The Crazy Wildes – A Case Study KEEP OUT!
‘But surely I should be allowed to read the bit about me!’ I plead as we gently lead Brewster back towards the yurt. (To be honest I don’t want to read the sections on Mum, Dad and Pip. I’m sure they would be way too disturbing.)
‘Look,’ says Taslima primly, ‘I’m the psychologist. I’ve got to be allowed to make my observations without worrying about how you might react to them. And don’t even think about trying to peek!’ She tucks the notebook into the back pocket of her shorts. ‘You could do yourself untold psychological damage!’
* * *
By the time we get back everyone else is up. Mum’s made us each a bowl of yogurt with fresh raspberries on top. She orders us out into the sunshine to eat. All of us, that is, except Cordelia, who has to stay in the shade in case her white skin tans and ruins her Scotty Goth look.
Once we’re all dressed and have tidied up our sleeping bags, we go wandering round the stalls. I did want to go for a swim first thing, but Mum wouldn’t let me in case I caught cold or got a sore throat. And after my anxiety dream last night I’m not taking any chances.
At the stalls Cordelia buys some earrings for her mum. They’re made from tiny pearly seashells threaded together with silver string. Taslima finds a little carved wooden box she thinks Mrs Ankhar would like. And Megan drags us over to look at a stall offering tattoos and body piercings.
‘I’ve always wanted a nose stud,’ she whispers, out of earshot of Mum. But Megan hasn’t counted on my mo
ther’s super-power ability to hear things she shouldn’t.
Sure enough, Mum flies over in a flurry of flowery skirt. ‘No, Megan. Don’t even ask!’ she exclaims.
‘But it’s OK, honest,’ Megan says. ‘Mum’s always said I can have a nose stud if I want. She’s cool about body piercings. She’s even got some herself.’
‘Megan!’ Mum says, a note of exasperation in her voice. ‘Your mother has her ears pierced. Not her tongue or her nose. You are NOT getting any piercings while you’re with me, OK?’
‘OK,’ Megan says. Then, as Mum turns to walk away, she mutters, ‘But it is my money.’
And I’m sure she didn’t mean Mum to hear. But Mum stops in her tracks and I brace myself. My mother might look all flowery and floaty and soft, but she’s like one of those dangerous prehistoric creatures. Not to be messed with. Sure enough, she turns on her heel.
‘OK, Megan,’ Mum says. ‘There’s one simple way to sort this out.’ And with that she strides over to the man at the body-piercings stall.
‘No, Mum, please!’ I call. But it’s too late. Mum’s in full flight.
‘That girl,’ Mum says loudly, pointing at Megan, ‘is only thirteen. She does NOT have permission to have ANY piercings or tattoos.’
And it’s like everyone for miles around turns and stares at us.
‘Cool,’ the man says. ‘No worries, lady. We’ve got a strict policy.’ He points to a sign behind him. ‘Over sixteens only!’ he shouts across to us. ‘Got that, girls?’
I roll my eyes – my mum is SO embarrassing sometimes.
Megan stands rooted to the spot, shell-shocked. And despite the fact that she nearly sent me into full-blown anxiety meltdown yesterday, I do feel sorry for her. There’s nothing worse than getting roasted by a mate’s mum in full view of the public. I should know. Mrs Ankhar once laid into me in the shopping mall. I was traumatized for months after.
In a show of sisterhood, I link arms with Megan and gently lead her away from the scene of her public humiliation.
‘Look on the bright side,’ I sigh as Mum disappears off in the opposite direction. ‘At least you don’t have to live with her!’
By the time we get back to the yurt I only have ten minutes to get my stuff packed before Zing’s due to pick me up. Cordelia, Megan and Taslima get changed into their bikinis to go to the beach. I shove my black skinny jeans and the top Twig gave me into the ruckie for later, along with the cute little camisole top and shorts set Mum got me to replace my fave bra and knickers that Houdini chewed on his first Great Escape. I haven’t worn the new set yet, so it’ll feel sort of special for tonight.
Just then Zing drives up in an open-top jeep. ‘Great news, Sassy!’ she says as she leaps down and bounces over. ‘Phoenix Macleod wants to do the photo shoot with you!’
‘What!’ Megan gasps.
‘It was Phoenix’s idea,’ Zing grins. ‘Sassy made quite an impression on him.’
Megan lets out a little squeak, like a cat whose tail’s just been trod on.
‘Of course, he won’t be modelling any clothes,’ Zing continues. ‘LOVE YOUR PLANET’s a girls’ range’
‘Great,’ I smile.
And it is great, but I’m a bit worried about being around Phoenix. When I’m near him I feel like I’m cheating on Twig. Even though I know there’s no way I would ever let anything happen. I mean, I’ve given Twig my word, haven’t I?
‘Ready, then?’ Zing asks, checking her watch.
‘Yep,’ I answer, hoisting my ruckie on to my shoulder.
Zing picks up my guitar and heaves it into the back of the jeep. Mum hugs and kisses me and wishes me luck.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Cordelia grins, coming out into the sunshine to hug me. ‘I’ve got really good vibes about tonight’s concert. I’ve got this hunch, you know, this gut feeling. You’re going to blow them away, Sassy Wilde.’
‘Yeah,’ says Taslima, joining in the hug. ‘Just be yourself, Sassy. Sing as if you’re in your room, doing it for us.’ Then she pushes my hair back and whispers in my ear, ‘Just remember to put your clothes on, won’t you?’
Pip gives me a big slobbery kiss on each cheek. She’s decided she’s going to collect autographs and has decorated one of her notebooks as PIP WILDE’S AUTOGRAPH BOOK. She thrusts it into my hand.
‘Get Phoenix to write something extra special,’ she smiles. ‘On the very first page.’
‘Course I will,’ I grin, ‘if you promise to be my slave forever.’
‘Sassy!’ Mum scolds playfully. Then she says to Pip, ‘I’m sure Phoenix will write something really sweet. He seems like a lovely boy.’
Which sets Cordelia and Taslima giggling.
‘Ready, Sassy?’ Zing calls as she starts up the engine.
I give everyone one last big hug – even Megan – then climb up into the jeep. Zing drives off and everyone waves. As we round the corner where the track disappears into the wood, I look back to give one last wave to my friends. But they’ve already left for the beach, and I can just see them, three small figures in bikinis, disappearing in the opposite direction, laughing and chatting.
Something inside me twangs just then. And I have the most awful feeling of loss.
‘Everything all right?’ Zing asks as I turn back round in my seat. ‘You seem a bit quiet.’
‘I’m fine,’ I force a bright smile. But I’m lying. A bit of me isn’t fine. A bit of me wants to forget all about photo shoots and performing and Phoenix Macleod and trying to be a star.
A bit of me wants to jump out and run back and join my bezzies on the beach.
The performers’ enclosure sits on top of the cliffs, a group of big luxury caravan trailers, set apart and fenced off from the public part of the festival.
Zing pulls the jeep up outside one of the trailers. It’s the kind of thing I’ve only ever seen in American movies before. Phoenix Macleod is sitting on the deck of the trailer next door in a pair of faded cut-offs, lazily strumming his guitar. He looks up as I arrive and smiles, but keeps playing, his black curls shining in the sun. And despite my best intentions to stay faithful to Twig forever, my heart flips over.
Inside the trailer Chantelle, the make-up lady, is waiting for me, with a specially lit mirror and a huge make-up box like the one we keep tools in at home. She grins a big warm hello. She’s not at all what I was expecting. I thought she’d be skinny and glamorous, but she’s plump and jovial. Zing shows me a small room at the back of the trailer where I can dump my stuff. She’s made a big gold star and stuck it on the door.
‘Not the best dressing room ever,’ she laughs, ‘but better than some I’ve seen, and you can have a nap here after the photo shoot.’
‘It’s great,’ I say, throwing my ruckie down on the bed and propping my guitar against the wall.
Then I go back through to the living area of the trailer and Chantelle sits me down in front of the mirror.
‘Think of me as a fairy godmother,’ she says as she stands behind me, looking at my reflection. ‘Not that I’m going to be messing about with any old pumpkins!’ she laughs. ‘No, no, girl. I’m simply going to make you look your very best. And I think we’ll start with your hair.’
‘I like my hair the way it is,’ I say right away.
‘Don’t worry!’ Chantelle laughs, and her curls dance. ‘I like your hair too. It’s great, got character, but you just let me use a little magic, and we can make it even better.’
And with that she sets to work with a pair of heated tongs. Half an hour later my hair is falling down in the most gorgeous, glossy corkscrew curls you could imagine.
‘Do you trust me now, sweetie?’ Chantelle smiles, holding a hand mirror up so I can see the back of my head.
I nod.
‘So now for a little make-up. And don’t even start to protest!’ she says when I open my mouth. ‘How do you think models in magazines look so good in their photos? None of that’s natural, I can tell you. I’ve worked with the best, and they all, ever
y last one of them, wake up with zits on their noses and shadows under their eyes. That little ole camera can be cruel. So let Chantelle make your skin as perfect as possible, and bring out the sparkle in those beautiful eyes!’
Chantelle’s so nice, it’s hard to argue with her. She spins my chair round so I’m facing her rather than the mirror, then starts cleansing my face with soft cream on cotton-wool pads. It’s warm inside the trailer. And outside Phoenix is strumming his guitar softly and singing. I start to feel sleepy, and give in happily to my fairy godmother as she orders me to close my eyes, relax my face muscles, tip up my chin, open my eyes, smile, pout, purse.
Chantelle’s fingers are gentle and the different make-ups and creams smell lovely, like a mix of Mum’s perfume and the kind of sweeties I loved when I was tiny.
‘Now if you don’t like what I’ve done,’ Chantelle says as she flicks a soft smattering of powder over my face and I screw my eyes tight shut, ‘then don’t you worry your pretty little head. We’ll take it all off and start again.’
With that she spins me round to face the mirror.
‘Wow!’ I gasp. ‘Is that me?’
‘You like it, sweetie?’ Chantelle asks, rearranging some of my new glossy corkscrew curls.
‘It’s cool,’ I gasp. And I mean it. I never guessed in a thousand years I could look like that! It’s like I’ve got no make-up on at all, but my eyes look much bigger, my lashes look naturally thick and curled, my skin is radiant, and my lips look, well, luscious, actually!
Just then there’s a tap at the open door of the trailer and Phoenix sticks his head in.
‘I think they’re wanting us for the photo shoot,’ he says. Then he looks at me for what feels like forever and blows softly through his lips.
My heart starts to thunder so loud I’m sure he’ll hear it.
‘They want you to bring your guitar,’ he smiles, then disappears.
‘Have a good one, precious,’ Chantelle says as she starts to pack her toolbox again, ‘and don’t let anyone mess with your hair!’
‘I won’t!’ I promise. Then I grab my guitar and head out to the jeep, my shiny new corkscrew curls bouncing in the sun.