Love Song Page 13

  I had a clue, though. I’d done some extra searching online after we’d ended the call. According to the fan sites, lots of people assumed the band would go to Jamaica for the new recording sessions. Some favoured Mustique. Others talked about a studio on one of the Greek islands, where there was a gorgeous villa with top-class recording facilities, overlooking the sparkling sea.

  This time, though, Mum didn’t seem so keen.

  ‘This secrecy thing sounds very fishy,’ she mused.

  ‘I know it seems odd,’ I agreed. ‘But you’ve got to understand. As soon as anyone says anything about the band, it’s on the web in seconds. I’m sure Windy’s just being careful. You’d like him, Dad. He’s the man with the MGA, remember?’

  ‘Ah, lovely motor,’ Dad said. ‘He can’t be all bad … but just because a bloke has excellent taste in vintage sports cars, it doesn’t mean he’s reliable. He’s the manager of a rock band. I mean, of course the man’s unreliable.’

  ‘What about your A levels?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Well, I probably wouldn’t miss much school anyway. I could start the syllabus while I’m there. And there’s always the internet. Everywhere’s connected these days.’ Rock bands were rubbing off on me, I realized. If you think big, you can make things happen. This wasn’t a bad thing to learn.

  Dad appealed to Mum. ‘Make her see sense, will you?’

  But that dreamy look was starting to creep back into Mum’s eyes. She tried to frown so it wouldn’t show, but I saw it anyway.

  ‘You barely lasted a week last time,’ she said. But I could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘Only because of Sigrid.’

  ‘When you Skyped us, we could see how stressed you were.’

  ‘Yes! But the things that stressed me wouldn’t be happening this time.’

  Me. And The Point, and their entourage – who I liked. In an exotic location. Without Sigrid Santorini to mess things up. I needed Tammy to be here to say, Hello?

  Mum turned to Dad. ‘What do you think? After everything they put her through, they owe her a decent holiday. If anything bad was going to happen, it would have happened by now, wouldn’t it?’

  Dad made harrumphing noises.

  ‘One of them’s a drunk.’

  ‘But he’s trying to give up, Dad.’

  ‘One’s a maniac.’

  ‘Angus? Yeah, but when you get to know him …’ I realized I was starting to sound like Ariel used to.

  ‘Ha! One of them’s a skirt-chaser.’

  ‘Connor’ll have plenty of other skirts to chase, I’m sure. In the entourage.’

  ‘And one’s …’

  ‘What? Jamie’s practically married.’

  ‘He’s dangerous, I’m telling you.’

  It was true, but not for me. I’d seen how close he was to Sigrid, and I was still touched by what he’d tried to do for her in Paris.

  ‘I’m not in danger of anything happening with Jamie Maldon. Trust me.’

  It took me two days, but I wore them down in the end.

  Ariel was devastated. Michael was pleased. He’d been itching for me to leave home so he could use my room, and this seemed like the first sign of it.

  ‘I don’t get you! You told me what they were like!’

  ‘But that was on tour, Lellie. This is different.’

  ‘You’re so two-faced! I hate you!’

  She ran off to her room and wouldn’t talk to me.

  Tammy had no problems with the new plan at all. She screamed so loudly when I told her that I worried I would never hear properly in my right ear again. She insisted on buying me three bikinis with her own money, because she said I looked amazing in all of them.

  ‘And if anything happens while Jamie’s away from Sigrid, the same rules apply as last time.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell him that you’ll be there to comfort him? Spiritually?’

  ‘You bet. She’s the Queen of Evil. He’s bound to work it out eventually.’

  ‘She has the most beautiful face in the world. I’ve seen it close up first thing in the morning. It’s flawless.’

  ‘OK, Angus, then. I could comfort Angus. I’m generous that way.’

  ‘Fine.’ I realized that I’d sort of done that myself already. Which was bizarre.

  ‘Or Connor …’

  ‘OK, OK! I get the picture!’

  ‘Not George, though. I have my standards. And what am I telling everyone at school, if you’re not back by the start of term and this secrecy thing is still happening?’

  ‘Tell them …’

  I’d just been reading a book by Malcolm Gladwell, called The Tipping Point. According to Oliver, this was the book Jamie was reading when he got the idea for the band’s name. I knew almost as much as Ariel about him now. He’d left school at sixteen, but since then he’d devoured any book he could get his hands on. This one was all about how successful ideas spread in exactly the same way as a cold.

  ‘Tell them I have a virus,’ I said.

  It seemed appropriate somehow.

  By the time Windy arrived to pick me up and take me to the airport, the suitcase had been packed for twenty-four hours, and repacked four times in the process, just to squeeze in extra essentials. After a two-hour session in the salon, my new highlights shone in the sun. My skin was already smothered in tan lotion, just in case I forgot to apply any when I arrived. My new Jackie-O sunglasses were firmly on my head. The butterflies in my stomach felt as though they’d been on a seven-hour flight already. My wallet was full of cash, ready to be exchanged for whatever currency would be required when we got there.

  Windy was as flamboyant as ever, in a striped linen jacket, a pink shirt and a blue tweed cap at a jaunty angle over one eyebrow. He looked at my case, and then at the boot of his car. So did I. So did Dad.

  ‘Ah,’ he said.

  It was the same tomato-red MGA as last time. I’d sort of assumed that he’d turn up in an airport car to collect me this time. Or some kind of band-related limo. Just this once, that would have been useful.

  But no.

  The MGA is a stunning open-topped sports car with a long, sweeping bonnet over its twin-cam engine. There’s room for a driver and passenger in the cockpit – no back seats. And behind them, as an afterthought, is a dinky little square boot – just about large enough for a picnic hamper.

  ‘Ah,’ Dad echoed eventually, spotting the problem and heading for the boot. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Windy agreed, gesturing for Dad to open it.

  We all looked inside. It contained a spare wheel, a canvas holdall, a leather case and a large blue dog bed, covered in hairs. Altogether, they already took up three-quarters of the space. There was just about room left for a tote bag.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to juggle a little,’ Windy admitted. ‘Are there things in the, er …’ he indicated my cases, ‘… that you really need?’

  ‘Yes. Everything.’

  ‘Ah. Would you mind terribly repacking? I’m sorry. I didn’t really think this through.’

  Oh, really?

  For the next twenty minutes I silently swore at Rory Winder-mere and his stupid taste in transport as I went back inside and repacked the absolute basic essentials – not much more than my computer, bikinis, underwear, wash things and some kaftans – into my tote bag, plus a couple of plastic supermarket bags that Ariel rescued for me from the kitchen. She got me the mankiest ones, I noticed. She still hadn’t begun to forgive me for going off with her new worst enemies.

  Dad squeezed the bags into the boot as best he could and just managed to close it by pressing down on it hard.

  ‘And this,’ Windy said proudly, striding round to the front of the car, ‘is Twiggy.’

  ‘Who?’

  In all the horror of the suitcase situation, I hadn’t noticed the other occupant of the car. She was sitting in the passenger seat, shivering slightly, and looking up at me with big, brown eyes.

  I should have realized. The dog
bed …

  ‘Isn’t she a darling?’ Windy enthused. ‘I’m inordinately fond of her. She’s just what the boys need for company.’

  ‘What is she? A greyhound?’ Dad asked, peering at the narrow grey face uncertainly.

  ‘A whippet. The most elegant dogs on earth, and she knows it, don’t you, darling?’ Windy bent down to ruffle behind her silky ear. ‘You won’t mind her on your lap, will you, Nina? Your brother kindly took her for a walk while you were packing, so she should be happy for a while.’

  I was too confused to answer. Dad was right: the man was clearly insane. And I was heading who-knows-where with him and a whippet.

  ‘Call me,’ Dad said, squeezing me close to him. ‘When you get there. Tell me you’re safe.’

  ‘Sure, Dad,’ I agreed, with feeling.

  The rest of the family came out to see me off: Mum with Pip and Lara attached to each leg, Michael with his hands in his pockets, Josh shooting Nerf bullets all over the front lawn, and Ariel standing in the shadow of the front door, glaring. I climbed into the car, and the whippet balanced her thin legs precariously on my thighs. Windy revved the sports car’s engine and set off with a theatrical wave.

  While he busily negotiated the traffic-clogged streets of South London, Twiggy and I tried to work out how we were going to manage her long, skinny legs, sharp claws and bony rump against my thighs and stomach. I assumed she’d get some sort of special dog seating area on the plane. How had Windy even got permission to take her with him? But … you know … rock band. The normal rules wouldn’t apply.

  Gradually the road grew wider and calmer, and Twiggy settled herself more or less comfortably on my lap with her head poking out of the window. I calmed down a bit too. Maybe the bag fiasco wasn’t necessarily such a disaster. Surely there would be other girls I could borrow things from? Maybe even girls like Cath and Jess, who I knew from the tour.

  ‘Who else will be there?’ I asked.

  ‘Hmm?’ Windy said, distracted by the road ahead.

  ‘At the studio. Who’ll be there apart from the band?’

  ‘Um … not many people. You know what I said about it being top secret? We’re talking about a skeleton staff.’

  ‘Oh. Right. How many other girls?’

  ‘Well …’ Windy seemed to consider for a moment. ‘Actually, none.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not girls, exactly. Unless you count the chef. And as I was recently invited to her thirtieth birthday, I can’t say I do.’

  Oh-

  kaaaaay then.

  I was very quiet for a very long time, while my brain tried to process this information. Jamie Maldon, and Angus McLean ... and me. Just me. In my bikinis and kaftans, with my highlights glowing. There was a strange, flippy feeling in my stomach which wasn’t entirely down to Twiggy digging her back legs into my flesh.

  The Point, and me. Why had Windy chosen me?

  It was one of Ariel’s fanfic stories times a thousand. My heart raced, but my mind couldn’t really go there. The weirdness was too immense.

  ‘I’m not saying it’ll be easy, sharing with a bunch of lads being forced to do something they don’t entirely want to do,’ Windy added, breaking the silence. ‘We tried it in Jamaica last summer. Disaster. Then Miami at Christmas. That was actually worse. But you know what they say … third time lucky …’

  His face twisted into a grim smile. This made me nervous. I thought back to the backstage tensions between Jamie and Angus, which I’d kind of forgotten about since leaving the tour. What I tended to remember was the music, and how I’d felt watching them.

  ‘Don’t they want to record?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I mean, they do, but not together. They keep talking about their solo projects. They take it for granted, this … gift they have together. They don’t how extraordinary it is. Most great bands don’t, until it’s too late. They let little things drive them apart, and before they know it, it’s over. That’s why I’ve had to be strict this time. No entourage. I need them to focus on each other, not hangers-on.’

  This sounded bad.

  ‘Are they OK with that?’

  ‘Mmm … you see, the thing is, they don’t exactly … know. There’s quite a lot they don’t know, actually. If I’d told them everything, they wouldn’t … but I’m sure they’ll come round. Eventually.’

  Oh dear. This sounded very bad.

  ‘They … they know about me, though, don’t they?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  Oh.

  The flippy feeling subsided into something more flappy – like a sea creature suddenly stranded on a beach. I’d assumed my invitation must mean that Jamie had forgiven me for the photographs. But it sounded as though he hadn’t been consulted.

  ‘What else don’t they know?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘Well, I’ll explain most of it tomorrow. But let’s just say I’ve had to think radically. No distractions. No excursions. None of those devices they’re addicted to. I need to force them together to write.’

  This was sounding worse by the second. Less like a luxury holiday, and more like a luxury boot camp. It was not what I’d signed up for at all.

  ‘And that’s where you come in, Nina,’ Windy said, reaching over and patting my hand. ‘It’s not just your housekeeping skills I’m after. The boys will need a friend. Someone else they can talk to at the beginning, when things are … sticky. Someone about their age, who they can relax with, but who won’t take sides. Another boy in the mix would only make things worse. All that testosterone …’ He shuddered. ‘So … I thought there should be a girl. But not a girl girl, obviously. Ha!’ He chuckled to himself.

  I glanced at him.

  ‘What do you mean, “not a girl girl”?’

  He grinned back at me, like it was obvious.

  ‘Not a girlfriend sort of girl. Not someone they’re going to fight over all the time. That would be dreadful. Just … you know …’

  ‘A person.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Who none of them fancies.’

  ‘Yes! Precisely! And just as importantly, someone who doesn’t fancy any of them. I’ve seen the way you are with them. You’re sensible. You’re responsible. You know how to be friendly without flirting – and that would be a disaster, I hardly need to tell you. You’ve seen the effect that girls have on the band. Catastrophic. Utterly catastrophic. But you’ll be perfect company for them all.’

  He smiled at me happily.

  Not a girl girl.

  ‘And Twiggy, of course,’ he added, turning his eyes back to the road. ‘She’s essential to the mix. I’ll need you to look after her too.’

  Yeah. Silly me. For glamour, they’d have the dog.

  As London gradually gave way to intermittent patches of green and glimpses of countryside, we drove on in silence. My thoughts drifted. Not in good directions. Why had I ever imagined – even for a moment – that I could be that girl?

  If anything, I had passed the audition to be the most reliable young female you could put in close proximity to The Point and be certain that nothing was going to happen. I’d proved it with each of them in turn. I’d even spent the night with one of them and nothing had happened. Well done, Windy.

  By now, I’d stopped noticing where we were heading. It was only when I felt light raindrops on my face that I looked up and saw a sign saying ‘M1 – The North’. Wait: this was not the way to any of the airports I knew. In fact, it was pretty much in the opposite direction.

  ‘We’re not going from Gatwick or Heathrow, then?’

  ‘No,’ he acknowledged, absently. He was looking up at the looming grey clouds that had appeared from nowhere in the bright blue sky.

  Oh, of course. We’d probably be taking a jet from a private airfield. That would explain how relaxed he was about travelling with a dog.

  Soon we turned off the dual carriageway and on to a minor road. Twiggy shivered on my lap as the warm summer breeze gave way to a sharp, cold wind. Tw
o minutes later, Windy pulled in at a lay-by and got out of the car.

  ‘Would you mind?’ he said, indicating that Twiggy and I should get out too. ‘Won’t be a moment.’

  He pushed the seats forward and started to undo a series of metal fasteners on a canvas cover that was neatly tucked behind them. Soon he was unrolling an old-fashioned metal and canvas structure. It was like a little tent being constructed over the cockpit of the car. The hood! You’d never know it was stored there, in its secret compartment. And if we hadn’t got near our destination yet, we were really going to need it. What had started as a gentle shower was turning into relentless drizzle.

  Holding the whippet’s lead in one hand, I helped Windy as best I could, fixing the frame in place on my side of the car, stretching the canvas over it and working the tricky fastenings into place. By the time we were done, we were both pretty wet. Twiggy, in her damp felt overcoat, looked utterly miserable.

  Windy smiled at the car from under his dripping cap.

  ‘This is more of a sunny weather vehicle,’ he admitted ruefully, as we slid back into our seats. ‘But I couldn’t resist one last run up north in her.’ He patted the car fondly on its wet wooden steering wheel.

  ‘Um … “up north”?’ I asked.

  From London, hot places are south. Everybody knows that. You get in a plane and fly south.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re not quite halfway, but nearly. We should be there by nightfall.’

  I was getting nervous now. ‘Up north’ was not a private airfield. It wasn’t the Caribbean. It wasn’t Mustique, or a Greek island, or LA. ‘Up north’ was not bikini country.

  ‘I might as well tell you now,’ Windy said, pulling back on to the road. ‘We’re going to Northumberland. Not far from the border. Stunning countryside.’

  ‘The border with Scotland?’

  ‘Mmm hmm.’

  ‘You’re going to shut us up in a house in Scotland?’

  ‘Well, nearby, certainly. You’ll love it. Very bracing. And it’s less than twenty miles from the sea.’

  ‘Twenty miles?’

  ‘At most. Probably nineteen.’