You Don't Know Me Read online

The big black door stays absolutely shut behind him.

  I turn away sadly and go to find Mum in the lobby.

  ‘Take me home?’ I ask. ‘Now? Please?’

  ‘What, to Somerset?’ she asks. ‘But we’re supposed to stay here for the final. And besides, it’s a two-hour drive. We wouldn’t be there till after midnight.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, do you want to say goodbye to the others at least?’

  But I don’t want to stay here for a moment longer.

  Mum sees the look on my face. So she holds out her hand, and pulls me close to her.

  ‘All right.’

  Rainbow Coloured Cardigan

  It’s late when Mum comes into my room on Sunday morning, dressed and clutching a mug of tea.

  ‘I thought I’d leave you. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Tired.’

  ‘You looked exhausted. That’s why I let you sleep on despite the phone calls. Lots of people trying to get in touch. I told them they could talk to you later.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Where shall I put this?’ she asks, holding out the tea.

  We cast around for a mug-sized space, but there isn’t one. I shift a pile of papers on top of another to make some room.

  ‘Sure you’re OK?’

  I nod. ‘I just need to be on my own.’

  She gives me her I’m downstairs if you need me smile and leaves me to it.

  Instinctively, I reach out for my phone and check my messages on Interface. Some are from family, friends and new fans:

  How are you, love? Your grandpa and I are thinking of you.

  Bad luck in the competition! You were the best!

  I always thought Rose was lardy. You looked amazing.

  Hiya, Hotlegs. You were soooooo coooooool.

  Others are from new enemies:

  I hope you die, you selfish cow.

  It’s God punishing you for being such an evil witch. lol

  There are ten times more of these. But even the ‘encouraging’ ones are weird. How can anyone think they’re comforting me by calling Rose ‘lardy’? Did they not understand our friendship at all?

  I scan through the list, put my phone down and reach for the hot cup of tea. Then I drag myself out of bed. My room is a tip. Worse than usual. At the moment, it’s got about ten discarded outfits for Killer Act rehearsals in a heap on the floor, several piles of papers on the desk to do with homework I haven’t done, and various little pillars of read and half-read books lined up near the bed. Walking across it is a hazard and it hasn’t been properly hoovered for weeks. I’m not entirely sure that all the laundry is clean.

  In the middle of the pile of clothes are two of Rose’s cardigans. Her gran knits them for her every Christmas. She must have left them here when it was too warm to wear them, or maybe to have one ready to slip into when it was cold. She must have loads of my stuff mixed up with her wardrobe, too – not that she’d have worn it. My clothes were generally too boring for her.

  I’ve always admired Rose’s style. Only she would wear a vintage nylon evening dress, baggy jacket and boots to go shopping in Castle Bigelow. Only Rose would combine a lime green midi skirt with one of these chunky, rainbow-coloured knitted cardigans. She was impossible to miss. In fact, she always shone out like a beacon.

  I miss everything about her. Now it feels as if I’ll never see her again.

  I pick up one of the cardigans. This one is a colourful statement in every possible shade of blue, with red beads sewn in stringy patterns around the hem. Her gran was inspired by the ocean when she began knitting this and I think the beads are supposed to be coral. I take it off the pile and put it round my shoulders, gradually easing my arms into the sleeves. It’s warm and cosy, even if the sleeves dangle past my fingertips and the hem practically comes down to my knees. Will Rose miss it? I can always give it back to her if she does. Right now, I need it, as the weak spring sun struggles to make it through the gap in the curtains in my room.

  My phone rings. It’s Nell, with Jodie right beside her, anxious to find out what’s happened to me.

  ‘Aren’t you coming back?’

  ‘No,’ I explain.

  ‘But don’t you want to be here for the final?’

  ‘Not really. Have you had a chance to talk to Rose?’

  Nell sighs down the line.

  ‘No. She’s busy in rehearsals for tonight. I think she’s avoiding us.’

  ‘Of course she’s avoiding us!’ Jodie moans. ‘We dumped her. Well, Sasha dumped her. She’s just doing to us what we did to her.’

  ‘But we tried to apologise,’ I murmur. ‘Or at least . . .’ Or at least, I did. Seeing as I was the one who had the brilliant idea of dropping her, it was only right that it should have been me who tried. I’m still trying.

  ‘Ivan’s storming around,’ Nell says. ‘He was really hoping you’d be here for the show. You know, that bit at the end when we all stand onstage? It’ll look odd without you. Please come back, Sash.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. Tell Ivan I’m not well. Actually – I don’t care what you tell him. Why are you guys even still there, after what they did to us?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Nell says, struggling for an answer.

  ‘Because it’s television,’ Jodie shouts. ‘It’s what you do. There’s, like, a million people waiting to see us.’

  ‘So they can call us selfish cows on FaceFeed,’ I point out.

  ‘You’re being a coward, hiding away.’

  She’s right. She’s absolutely right. I should probably be up there, with them, smiling for the cameras, ignoring all the hate. But I can’t. Instead, I stick my hands into the pockets of Rose’s cardigan and sit staring out of my bedroom window.

  At lunchtime, Mum tempts me downstairs for soup and toast. As usual, she has the radio on in the kitchen while she cooks. Some woman who’s written a book about the female body image is being interviewed about us and ‘what we mean to society’.

  ‘I just think it’s absolutely terrible,’ she says. ‘Girls these days. They’re so nasty to each other. You wouldn’t believe the things they say on websites and social media. This behaviour by those so-called Magic Pixie Dream Girls is just typical: “If you don’t look right, you can’t be part of our gang.” We really need to do something about it. Women need to stand together. As long as you’re eating healthily and exercising, there’s nothing wrong with your body shape. We should celebrate everyone, big and small. And we should stop criticising each other all the time.’

  Mum stares at the radio.

  ‘From Miss “Women need to stand together”,’ she says sarcastically, shaking her head. ‘If that’s not being critical, I don’t know what is.’

  She looks at me with a sympathetic half smile. I try to smile back.

  I doubt Mum knows this, because she mostly only goes online to do food shopping from Tesco, but people are selling T-shirts saying #dropthefatgirl now. You can buy them from several different sites. If you like, you can get them with #skinnywitch on the back.

  Back in my room, my phone goes again with a text:

  I know where you live, Sasha Bayley. And I’m waiting.

  This is different. Breathless. I feel breathless.

  At 7 p.m. Mum calls me down to watch the final with her. It goes by in a blur. I can’t concentrate. Who knows where I live? What are they waiting for? Are they watching me now? Mum can’t understand why I keep checking that all the curtains in the cottage are shut tight, or why I flinch every time a car goes by in the lane outside.

  On TV, there are several close-ups of Nell and Jodie sitting in the audience, looking pale, holding hands. I feel more than ever that I’ve abandoned them, but really, what is the point of us being there tonight? Before I came downstairs I checked the ‘I Hate the Manic Pixie Dream Girls’ page. It was up to 107,000 haters. And 107,000 people who hate you can’t be wrong.

  When Rose appears onstage for her final number, she is
wearing a designer dress I’m sure I’ve seen in a magazine – blue and green, with crystals shimmering around the neckline. She’s back at the piano, playing ‘Breathless’ one more time. Her makeup, as always, is immaculate, down to the triple flick of her eyeliner. Her hair is piled high on her head. She’s not like most girls you see on MTV, but there is no doubt she’s beautiful. Especially when she’s singing, she has a glow about her.

  And then there’s her voice. Her incredible voice. The voice that comes out of nowhere and never lets you go.

  I check my phone, to see what the world is saying.

  #voteRose is trending. So are #Breathless and #dropthefatgirl again. But even those FaceFeeds are mostly from people who really like her. Ivan will be pleased: Killer Act has five of the top ten trends in the UK right now.

  At the end of this part of the show, Roxanne Wills comes out to sing her new song, surrounded by sexy backing dancers in neon makeup and not much else. There’s a break for a game show, while the world busily votes. Then it’s back for the final announcement.

  Andy Grey stands onstage next to all the finalists and grins at the camera, enjoying the tension. He asks each of the judges which performance they liked the most. Linus shrugs and says it’s impossible to call. Roxanne, in a new dress and jewellery after a quick change, says nice things about everyone, as usual.

  Sebastian sneers at them slightly.

  ‘We all know what we think is going to happen,’ he says honestly, straight to camera. ‘The question is, are we right?’

  With that, Andy waits for Ivan Jenks to speak the name of the winner into his earpiece. Ivan lets the moment last for what feels like hours. All the contestants, in their personal spotlights, look down at the stage floor. The dancers hold hands. A background drum roll goes on forever.

  ‘And the winner of Killer Act … with a contract to advertise Interface for a year … worth one hundred thousand pounds … is … … … … … … … … … … … ROSE IRELAND!’

  The studio erupts. Silver confetti falls from the ceiling. Rose dips her head and bites her lip. She looks pleased but shocked. So many people fake surprise, but Rose wouldn’t know how. She’s genuinely stunned – despite the fact that half the world, it seems, knew what was going to happen. The other finalists swoop in to hug her. Soon she’s surrounded by a large group of emotional people, with Jodie and Nell on the edge of it looking uncertain about what to do. The judges, thrilled and satisfied, go onstage to join her too.

  Meanwhile, the producers are clearing the stage and repositioning the grand piano so that Rose can play ‘Breathless’ one last time.

  She does. Just a girl, and a piano, and a spotlight. She gives a perfect solo performance, filling the screen with her emotion, and the room with her stand-out voice.

  My best friend just won a national talent competition and the video of her first performance – I just checked – has a half a million hits, and counting.

  My ex-best friend.

  When she sings, ‘You may hear me breaking, but you will never see me cry,’ I’m right back in that corridor, at the Interface HQ. It feels as though she’s singing it straight at me.

  Away From Me Now

  The next morning, Interface News is full of stories about Rose. It seems that everyone is talking about her.

  KILLER ACT WINNER SET TO MAKE A MILLION BY CHRISTMAS

  TEEN STAR’S SECRET CAR CRASH TRAGEDY

  BEAUTIFUL ROSE’S BULLYING HEARTBREAK: EXCLUSIVE!

  I hardly know where to start. Ignoring Mum’s pleas to come down to breakfast, I spend hours searching the web, following up the stories. The first one I click to is the ‘bullying heartbreak’. Is this more about Jodie, Nell and me?

  But it’s not. It’s worse.

  Life was not always so rosy for singing sensation Rose Ireland, who has just won this year’s Killer Act competition with a sensational performance. Attending the prestigious North London Girls’ School in her early teens, she was victimised by a gang of classmates who made her life a misery. ‘She used to dread school,’ says an unnamed friend. ‘They would wait outside the gates so they could mime being sick when she arrived. They said she should get bulimia so she could lose some weight. At lunch, if it was sausages, they’d throw them at her. Her nickname was Sausages.’

  Oh my God. So that’s why she left London. She never told me. She obviously wanted to forget it and move on. Which is what she had done – until now.

  Thinking back, she was teased a bit at St Christopher’s to start with – most people are, for one reason or another – but when she started hanging out with us, people stopped paying much attention. She was just one of the girls. We must have been her refuge, until we supposedly dumped her for being ‘large’. If I was a stranger reading about me now, I’d hate me too.

  Then there’s the article about her parents, giving details of the crash in which they died. There are bits about what happened to the bus that crashed, and who else died, that she’s never talked about, even to me.

  If this is all true, Rose would hate the world to know it. When Rose and I were together we just talked about the good things: what we liked, what made us laugh, what adventures we dreamed of. It’s weird to be finding out so much about her from the internet, when a few weeks ago she was sitting in this room with me, and I had no idea.

  I feel cut off and confused, sad for her and angry too. Why didn’t she tell me? Why couldn’t she share? What must she be thinking now?

  I call her number one more time, but she doesn’t answer and her voicemail’s stopped working. I’m starting to wonder if she’ll ever talk to me again.

  It feels as though Rose is about the only person who doesn’t want to talk to me, though. As the stories about her being bullied increase, and #dropthefatgirl is still trending on FaceFeed, everyone wants an interview with the girls who did the dropping. Mum calls Interface to ask what we should do, but they say that as our contract’s over, they can’t help us. Meanwhile, journalists call the house endlessly, until we unplug the house phone from the wall.

  Two days later, there’s a car outside the cottage, with a man sitting inside, in some sort of dark jacket. The car is parked on the verge, right up against the hedges. There isn’t really parking space on the narrow lane, so the few cars that pass have to pull out to go round him.

  ‘I don’t like the look of him,’ Mum says, staring through the kitchen window, but I assume he’s a stray motorist, lost on the way out of Castle Bigelow, consulting his sat nav or something. I pop my head out of the door to collect the milk and he calls my name. Surprised, I look up. He’s got a camera.

  ‘What’s it like to be called a witch?’ he shouts across the road.

  I stare at him, astonished. It’s seven-thirty in the morning and it’s like he’s just slapped me.

  He takes a picture. It’s online by lunchtime. I look haunted.

  After that, I don’t go out.

  Nell calls, to say she and Jodie are back from London. Sweet, kind Nell. She asks if I want to do some holiday revision together. But I don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.

  ‘Are you OK, Sash?’ she asks on the phone. ‘You sound . . . strange.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m OK. How about you?’ My voice sounds odd to me. Unused.

  ‘Fine.’

  Nell sounds strange too: clipped and uncertain. Not her usual bouncy self at all.

  ‘And Jodie?’

  ‘Yep, fine,’ Nell says, clearly lying. Nell’s the worst liar I know. ‘She’s riding her pony a lot to take her mind off things. Or at least, she did until someone took a picture of her with a flash and Rolo bolted and she nearly fell off. I saw that picture of you, by the way. I’m sorry.’

  Nell saw it. Oh God.

  I text Jodie to say I’m sorry about her pony bolting and I expect a long, ranty message back about the evils of the paparazzi, but . . . nothing. So Jodie isn’t talking to me either. I suppose she still blames me for not going back for the humiliations of the Killer Act fi
nal. And for being the original #skinnywitch during the auditions. I could point out that she agreed with me, that she could have argued me down and pointed out how crazy I was. She was even the one who told me to talk to Rose. But what’s the point?

  In the days that follow, the clip of Rose singing ‘Breathless’ for the first time goes totally viral worldwide, with over 20,000,000 hits.

  Twenty million.

  Workmates are emailing the link to each other. So are school kids. So are mums at home and students at university. They love her in Spain. They love her in South Africa. They love her in China and New Zealand and India. They simply adore her in America.

  They love that she’s brave. They love that she’s only sixteen and she’s got one of the best natural singing voices they’ve ever heard. They love that she can play piano and guitar, and writes her own songs. They love that she’s got a normal, relatable body shape and she’s not some ‘stick-thin twiglet’ like every model and celebrity, and her exbandmates, of course. Most of all, they love that she stood up to those ‘frenemies’ who dumped her, and that she found her inner confidence despite what they did to her.

  The more they talk about Rose, the more they talk about us. It’s on the news. It’s in the papers. It’s everywhere.

  SINGING SENSATION ABANDONED BY FRIENDS FOR BEING ‘FAT’

  BLOSSOMING ROSE, AND THE SPIKY THORNS WHO DUMPED HER

  By now 150,000 people have ‘liked’ our hate page. It features the clip of us dancing together at the auditions, while Rose stands apart, lost and alone. Altogether, that clip has been watched nearly a million times. So this is my new life: I am famous, and it totally sucks.

  After that, the holidays pass in a haze. I don’t know if I’m sad, or frightened, or just numb. In the mornings I wake up, reach out my arm and grab my phone from the bedside table. I type in my password and check to see what’s happening. I check our band page, and our hate page. One video is very popular. After two days, it already has over a thousand views. It shows three cartoon girls with our faces superimposed on their heads, being blown up, shot and killed in various gory ways. Apparently there is an app where you score points by shooting at a picture of my head in some sort of arcade game, but I haven’t managed to find it. LOL. I mean, hysterical. Well done whoever spent their evening putting that together.