You Don't Know Me Page 22

  ‘Er, I’m fine, honey. How are you?’

  He sounds a little bit drunk and very miserable. Exactly how I would be sounding, in fact, if I’d had a few beers or whiskies to soften the blow.

  ‘Has anything happened, Dad?’

  That’s not what I meant to say, but it turns out that stuff has happened to Dad too, and he wants to talk. When I visited him in Vegas, he was living with a showgirl called Crystal and her little daughter Liberty, but they’ve gone. It was his fault, he says. He chooses the wrong women. When he finds a good one, like Mum or Crystal, he lets her go. He lets everyone go, or they let him go. How many beers has he had?

  I’m up high above the cottage now, looking down towards the railway track and along to the orange glow of Castle Bigelow itself.

  ‘But why’re you calling, sweet thing?’ he asks. ‘Is your mum OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. It’s just . . . I’m in trouble on the internet, and there was a boy.’

  ‘Yes? What boy? What internet?’

  My turn now. I sit on a stile at the edge of a field and tell him everything: every last miserable detail. The thing about Dad is that when you’ve slept rough in bus stations and on park benches while following your Elvis dream, and when you’ve split up with more girlfriends than you can remember, and lost some stepchildren too that you were fond of, and drunk way too much beer and a few too many whiskies, there isn’t much that can shock you, or even surprise you. He listens to the whole story and he doesn’t try and tell me it’s OK. In fact, he tells me it stinks. Which is exactly what I need to hear.

  ‘I’m sorry, little one. I wish I could be there. I guess I’m part of the problem, huh?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say to reassure him. I did a lot of that when I was little – reassuring Dad, when he should possibly have been reassuring me.

  ‘All I can say is, you did the right thing.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘Opening your heart up to that guy. It’s how you know you’re alive. I know it got broken, but that’s what happens, honey. You just get up and get ready to have it broken all over again.’

  ‘Oh great. Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about, baby girl.’

  ‘He said . . . he said we’re like specks of dust.’

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘All of us. He said we’re so tiny, compared to the universe, our problems don’t matter.’

  ‘Hey! Are you sure you were in love with this boy?’

  I laugh a little. ‘Yeah, Dad.’

  ‘Well, he sure talked some baloney. Of course our problems matter. You know that. You know, you make me feel so old.’

  Dad is so not in reassurance mode. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re all grown up. Look at you – in love with a boy. Calling me long distance. It’s good to hear your voice, baby girl.’

  ‘That’s OK, Dad.’ There I am, doing the reassuring thing again.

  There’s a long silence and I think he’s forgotten me, but maybe he was just having a longer drink.

  ‘There’s just one thing,’ he says, quietly, as if he’s talking to his glass. ‘You won’t get this right now but one day, when you’re old and in a bar and thinking about all the stupid stuff you’ve done . . . maybe, if you’re lucky, your beautiful girl will call you and just knowing that she’s there, and you made her, that will kind of make it all worthwhile.’ He pauses. ‘I’m just saying. Ignore me. It’s nice to talk to you.’

  ‘OK, Dad. Well, . . . you did give me the phone.’

  ‘I gave you a phone?’

  ‘Yes. Not this exact one, but the last one.’

  ‘I did, huh? Must’ve been Crystal’s idea. She had some great ideas, that girl. It takes pictures, right?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, send me a picture of yourself sometime. Shoot a video. Show me what you’re up to. Give your mother my love. Don’t tell her about Crystal going, OK? She doesn’t need to know. Love you, little one.’

  ‘OK. Bye, Dad. Love you.’

  I won’t tell him that Mum assumed Crystal had left him ages ago. She’d actually be quite impressed to know they lasted so long. It makes me smile to think of shooting a video for Dad. I remember the first time we had the great idea of shooting a video. Look where it got us.

  I stay for a while, watching the sky grow truly dark, and the first stars start to appear. The North Star. Ursa Minor.

  Dad was pretty drunk when he got to the bit about it ‘all being worthwhile’ because of me. Trust Dad to bring it all back to how he’s feeling.

  I wonder what stars you can see from Vegas. None, probably, with the bright lights from the Strip blotting out the night sky. Dad won’t be looking anyway. He’ll still be in his bar, turning to the guy next to him, saying his daughter just called. His ‘beautiful girl’.

  I never knew he thought of me that way. I didn’t think I cared that much, but maybe I do. He’s lousy at reassurance, but strangely, I do feel better.

  When I get home, the cottage smells irresistibly of chicken soup.

  The Mistake I Had To Make

  Early next morning, I’m woken by the sound of my phone ringing. It’s Rose.

  ‘Sasha! I’m so, so sorry!’

  Wow, that word – just like Dan’s text. She even sounds like her ex-boyfriend. Come to think of it, he said things like ‘authentically bluesy’. They were made for each other.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, still feeling groggy from sleep.

  ‘All that stuff about us. It’s everywhere. I’ve been in the studio and Elsa didn’t tell me. She doesn’t tell me anything. I’ve just looked it up.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘We’re coping.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have to. I wanted to explain about us, but Linus says I’ll only make it worse if I get involved. I really am sorry. But I’ve got something to send you, at least. It’ll be ready soon. Look out for it.’

  ‘It’s not a handbag, is it?’ I ask, worried that she’s suddenly flashing her money around. Jodie’s seriously hoping for a Hermès for her birthday.

  ‘No!’ she laughs. ‘But you’ll like it, I promise. It was so good to see you, Sash.’

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  On FaceFeed, #manicpixienightmares is still trending. #dropthefatgirl is back. Two national newspapers have articles about victims of abuse who can’t break away from their bullies, but at least I know I didn’t dream what happened at the studio.

  The ‘something’ from Rose arrives a few days later and turns out to be an even stronger reminder. It’s the recording of us all singing ‘You Don’t Know Me’. The soundtrack has been professionally mixed by Dave, so it sounds fantastic, and it comes with a video, which Rose has obviously worked on with someone who’s an expert in editing. It uses the stills and video Nell and Sam took using her tablet while we were recording, mixing clips of us working things out and making mistakes and laughing with other clips of the eventual recording, where we’re all deadly serious and getting it right.

  ‘It’s gorgeous!’ Nell says, when I show it to her and Jodie.

  ‘Shall we put it on the band page?’ Jodie asks. ‘We might as well. It shows we weren’t actually torturing Rose at any point.’

  I agree we should. The Manic Pixie Dream Girls page has 20,000 fans by now, despite all the haters. I’m not sure how many of them still look there, but if they do at least they’ll see a glimpse of what we’re really like. I can show Dad. And I’m not in my pyjamas this time, either.

  For the next two weeks, I watch as Rose’s Interface page gradually changes. Some of the messages from fans have answers now, perfectly spelled, thanking them for their support. The dieting tips disappear. In their place is a list of her favourite songwriters and why she loves them. The moody publicity photo is replaced by a snapshot of her in a makeup chair, boot-clad feet on the seat in front of her, caught off-guard, laughing. The fake pop star is gone; my friend is back. It’s hard not to feel a little shiver of pride that I
helped make this happen. Also, the page is ten times more interesting now that it’s by the real Rose.

  At school, meanwhile, the only topics of conversation at school are exams and Interface. And nobody wants to talk about exams, so it’s mostly Interface. The launch of the new ad will be on the last Friday before half term. It will appear on every computer and phone with the site installed, which as they keep telling us, is over a billion of the things. They make it sound like the moon landings. And in a way, I suppose it is. They told us in IT that when NASA put men on the moon in 1969, they did it with much less computing power than the average smartphone uses today. So with the power of a billion computers, what could we do?

  Most excitingly, the button they use to launch it will be pressed from our very own assembly hall, followed by a live, exclusive performance from the stage by Rose Ireland herself.

  Except it won’t.

  A week before they’re due to arrive, the Head announces in assembly (with actual tears in her eyes) that instead of using our hall, the big event will take place at Castle College instead.

  ‘It seems,’ Mrs Richards says, with a distinct wobble in her voice, ‘that our facilities aren’t grand enough – I mean big enough – for Interface. When they came to do their inspection, they decided that we can’t accommodate enough people, and of course Castle College has just opened its new Performing Arts Centre, which I gather is magnificent.’

  She pauses to take a breath and master her voice. We all know how hard she’s been fighting for funding so that we can have a new, upgraded centre, but St Christopher’s hasn’t had a new building for twenty years. It’s the same as always: Castle College has all the money and facilities, and they beat us at everything.

  ‘But,’ she continues, forcing a brave smile onto her face, ‘all is not lost. At least we will be going. Or rather, you will be, and you are the heart of St Christopher’s after all. Everyone in Year 11 and above can attend, as well as some of the pupils from Castle College. I will want you all, of course, to be on your best behaviour. You are the advert for our school.’

  We are furious. Little groups gather in the playground afterwards to complain.

  ‘Evil, stupid, lying corporate toe rags,’ Elliot Harrison mutters, to nobody in particular.

  ‘The whole point,’ Jodie growls angrily, ‘was that the school who produced the winner was supposed to get the launch.’

  ‘Poor Mrs Richards,’ says Nell. ‘She was nearly crying.’

  ‘Look at the announcement,’ adds a boy standing nearby. ‘It’s on the Killer Act homepage. Here: “The ad will be launched on 24th May from Rose Ireland’s home town of Castle Bigelow, Somerset.” See? Home town. That’s how they got away with it.’

  ‘They don’t care what they say,’ sighs the girl next to him.

  ‘You can’t trust anything on the internet.’

  ‘Well, I bet Rose Ireland’ll be happy, anyway. She’s got so la-di-da these days.’

  ‘Good point.’

  I watch them head back towards their classes, not trusting the internet, but still believing everything it says. They should read her page, I think. But then, who would trust the word of a #manicpixienightmare?

  The night before the launch, she calls me. I’m in the middle of trying to work out what to do with my hair, just in case one of the cameras happens to catch me.

  ‘Hi! Are you busy?’ she asks. ‘Can you come over? I’m sorry, I should have called before but . . .’

  Yeah. She’s busy. I know. It’s wonderful to hear her voice, but her timing isn’t perfect.

  ‘Are you at Lockwood House again?’ I sigh. ‘It’s just that Mum only got in a few minutes ago and I’d have to ask if she can face driving.’

  ‘No,’ she explains. ‘I’m back at home. I kind of put my foot down. Gran’s so happy to have me back. Poor thing. She never said anything, but I feel awful for staying away so long.’

  Oh wow. She’s five minutes away. I check the time. Seven o’clock. Not too late. I’d still have time to finish sorting out my hair and get a couple of maths questions done. There’s something in her voice that worries me.

  ‘Sure. I’m coming over.’

  Spring is gently turning into summer, and the evening air is cool, but not cold. I’ve done this walk so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. It feels as though every blade of grass is familiar, every tree in leaf, every rut on the road. Ten minutes later, her gran has welcomed me back to the farmhouse and I’m in Rose’s old, familiar bedroom, with its red walls covered in posters of her singing heroes.

  Rose gives me a hug and envelops me in the smell of lavender soap. She puts on some jazz and sits on the bed with her feet curled under her, wearing a shabby old dressing gown she’s had for years, her hair in curlers, ready to be styled in the morning. I notice there’s a new dress hanging on her wardrobe door. It’s not a boring shift, thank goodness. It’s Rose’s old style – bold and flamboyant – an amazing, floor-length multi-coloured rainbow dress. Mrs Venning would approve.

  I sit on my usual window seat. The curtains are still open and it’s a beautiful starry night outside.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ she says. ‘I might not get the chance tomorrow.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For my songs. For what I’m going to play. You changed everything.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘Well, you and the others. You told me to play my songs. As soon as I got back to my music, it just came flowing out. Linus wasn’t happy, but Jim kept telling him how good it was. It sounds like me, Sash.’

  ‘Oh. Great!’

  This is good. The album’s sorted. She listened to sense. So why does she seem so brittle and nervous?

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Fine.’ She flashes me a smile, forgetting that I’m not fooled so easily. Not this close up, anyway.

  ‘No you’re not. What’s the problem? Are you worried about tomorrow?’

  She’s about to deny it, but I catch her eye. Suddenly, I can see the full level of fear she’s coping with, and it’s a lot.

  ‘It’s not “Living the Dream”, is it?’ I ask. ‘It’s not that bad, you know.’

  ‘No, not exactly. It’s about my new songs. It’s nothing. I . . .’

  ‘But they’re beautiful! “The Mistake I Had to Make” – is that one of them?’

  ‘Yes.’ She hangs her head.

  I picture her singing the song at the studio, and how delicate and melancholy it was. It will sound fabulous tomorrow, I’m sure, in the new Castle College theatre, with all its great acoustics that our school hall couldn’t provide.

  Castle College. All the students in the audience. ‘Breathless’. ‘The Mistake I Had to Make.’ Suddenly, Rose’s nerves make perfect sense. Those songs, in that place, to that audience. To one boy in particular in that audience. A boy who freezes whenever he hears her voice. It’ll be hard for me, but how much harder for her?

  There’s been too much silence between us for too long, and too many secrets. It’s time we stopped keeping them.

  ‘I know about Dan,’ I say.

  There’s a long, long pause. For a while, I think she’s going to deny it, but she doesn’t. Eventually, she looks back at me. ‘How?’

  ‘Because I’m your friend,’ I tell her. ‘I was going to get there eventually.’

  ‘Did he tell you?’ She looks mortified.

  ‘No. But I saw his face when they played “Breathless”.’

  I don’t say any more than that. I might as well spare her the gory details. Yeah, so I’m still keeping a few secrets.

  She closes her eyes, wincing at the idea of Dan listening to her song.

  ‘He was bound to hear it, Rose. It made number one.’

  ‘I know,’ she says in a small voice. Her eyes are still closed. ‘But . . . I wasn’t sure . . . if he’d know . . . it was about him.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Believe me, he knows. He’s not over you, Rose.’

  Her eyes s
nap open. ‘Oh no. He is.’

  I meet her wary gaze. ‘He so isn’t. Look, what happened? You guys went out last summer, while I was in Vegas, didn’t you? What went wrong? You clearly love him. He loves you.’

  Every word of this is hurting. Why am I doing it? Do I want her to deny it all? Because she’s not denying it. Not one single word. Not until I get to the end: the ‘he loves you’ part.

  ‘You’re wrong, Sash. He had a girlfriend. She was away for the summer and he . . . Maybe he got bored. Maybe he was lonely, I don’t know. Anyway, he went out with me while she wasn’t around. He made me think I was the first girl he’d ever felt that way about. I believed everything.’

  She shakes her head again, angry with herself. Keen to avoid the conversation, she goes to her dressing table and starts carefully removing the rollers from her hair. She looks at herself in the mirror now, not me. But I’m not finished yet.

  ‘Are you sure he had a girlfriend? Dan?’

  My gentleman Dan?

  Rose groans. She keeps working on her face – rubbing, brushing, checking. The movements are smooth and fluid from years of practice. I’ve seen her do it a thousand times.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she sighs. ‘You were coming back from your dad’s and I couldn’t wait to tell you all about him. But the week before you got home, the girlfriend came back from her holiday. She explained everything. They’d been going out for a year.’ Rose shuts her eyes again at the memory. ‘And I’d bared my soul to him, Sash. It was . . . I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t bear to, it was just so . . . crushing. And tomorrow he’ll be there, and so will she, and I’ll be . . .’

  Onstage, pouring out the memories. No wonder she’s nervous. But still it doesn’t sound right. Something doesn’t fit.

  ‘But what girlfriend?’ I ask.

  Rose pauses, eyeliner brush in hand. ‘That girl from the band. You saw her. I mean – it’s obvious, right?’

  She shrugs, as if the conversation’s over. It’s obvious, right? A girl like me. The fat girl against the skinny model type with tawny hair and tight leather dresses.