You Don't Know Me Page 23

  I thought she was over this at last, but she’s not. Not even now. I go over to kneel beside her.

  ‘Listen to me.’

  She looks down. A teardrop splashes onto her dressing gown.

  ‘I know that girl and she’s not his girlfriend. Not now, and never was. She’s a sad, sad wannabe who tries too hard.’

  She shakes her head. Another teardrop. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I do understand Rose. I really, really do. Trust me. He doesn’t love her. He never did. But she tries to put off any girl who gets close to him. Especially a girl like you.’

  She looks at me, uncertain.

  ‘Like me, how?’

  ‘Super-talented. Beautiful. That’s what she saw. And there’s music in your soul, Rose. That’s hard to compete with.’

  She doesn’t dare believe me, but I can see her wanting to try.

  ‘I’d say you were everything to him.’

  She shakes her head again, but slowly this time, her doubts fighting with new possibilities.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ she whispers.

  Now it’s my turn to look down.

  ‘Just take it from me. I am.’

  There’s a silence, punctuated only by a plaintive trumpet on the record player, playing the blues. Miles Davis, probably. Rose loves his music. It suits the mood, because I realise that those last few words came out more sadly than I meant them to.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, suddenly understanding. ‘You . . . ? I . . . Oh, Sash. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  So no more secrets, then. No more.

  Miles Davis finally stops playing. The needle comes to the end of the record and bumps its way around the surface of the vinyl, missing its cue to go back to its stand. Hiss, bump, hiss, bump. Rose rises slowly to stop it, while I think about what a combined hopeless mess we are. Rose more than me, though.

  ‘How could you possibly not realise Cat was lying?’ I ask her. ‘Didn’t Dan explain?’

  ‘I didn’t give him the chance.’ She stands by the record player, looking horrified as the truth sinks in. ‘I thought he’d been toying with me all that time. I thought he’d be telling his friends about me. Laughing.’

  ‘I don’t think he told a soul,’ I tell her. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  Although now I think about it, I wonder about Ed. He mentioned the breakup, so he knew about that. It would explain why he was so hostile to us at first, when Rose was still part of the band. Maybe he just wanted to defend his brother.

  She groans again. ‘He tried to call me. He emailed loads of times. I ignored him. I tried to pretend it had never happened. I wish I’d told you, Sash. I thought I was being all noble.’

  I think back to how she was in the autumn term, listening to sad jazz like this, moody, writing ‘Breathless’. And I bet the reason she felt ill about singing at George’s party was because Dan was there. I kept putting things down to shyness, when in fact it was heartbreak.

  Yes. I wish I’d known. I’d never have dropped her from the band if I’d realised what she was going through. I wouldn’t have let myself fall for him too. And then the last four months of our lives wouldn’t have happened. Well, not like this, anyway. Although, mind you, nor would we be talking about her number one single.

  ‘You should say something to him,’ I say. ‘You owe him an explanation, you know.’

  ‘I suppose I do,’ she agrees, slowly. ‘God, I’ve been hideous, and all this time I thought it was him. He must hate me.’

  ‘Like I said, he doesn’t.’

  Knowing how much this is costing me – or at least, a little of what it’s costing me – she comes over to hug me, for a long time.

  ‘Thanks, Sash.’

  ‘Any time.’

  Yup. Any time I can hand over the perfect boy, so you can get back together with him, just ask me. That’s what friends are for.

  A Definite Disaster

  After school next day, they bus us to Castle College in six large coaches, which bring the whole town centre to an impressive halt. The coaches chug slowly up the hill and through the large stone gateway to the school, past several impressive old buildings and slick green playing fields, to a modern steel-and-glass building at the back. A plaque in the hallway announces that it was opened last year by a member of the Royal Family.

  ‘Typical,’ Jodie says, glaring at it.

  The theatre is huge and modern – not so different from the one at Interface – with a massive box at the back for a bank of technicians to manage computer effects and lights. The comfortable auditorium easily seats twice as many people as our old, stuffy, paint-peeling assembly hall, and we hate everything about it. Stupid seats. Stupid, smug Castle College prefects in their blazers and gowns (they have actual blue university-type gowns), showing us where to go. Stupid lectern on the stage, with a massive screen suspended above it. Stupid Interface TV people, going on and on about ‘what a great performance space it is’.

  Several rows of seats have been taken out near the stage so at least two TV news crews can set up with their cameras. The launch of a worldwide ad is a big event. Interface News will be doing a live webcast, so we’ll be able to watch what’s happening onstage in front of us and simultaneously on our phones, via the internet, which is cool but totally weird.

  Later on, the highlights will appear on the evening news. It was going to be the Head’s big chance to show what students from St Christopher’s can do. Instead, everyone will have the impression that Rose went to a posh school with amazing music facilities, and that’s how she got famous. The truth is, all she needed was dedication, an old vinyl record collection, deep feelings and a second-hand guitar.

  I look around for Dan among the Castle College students at the back, but no sign of him yet. When everyone’s settled, the Head of Castle College comes on and gives a very long speech about musical achievement and forward-looking technology at his school, while Mrs Richards sits behind him, trying to master her emotions. Ivan Jenks comes in and gives another speech about social networks and community involvement and ‘inspiring future generations’. We sit and stare at him impassively, in our alien surroundings. This particular generation doesn’t feel too inspired. He doesn’t seem to care.

  It’s 5.50. The news cameras start rolling.

  ‘This is the first year we’ve reached the big nine zeroes,’ Ivan grins, drawing to the end of his speech. ‘That’s one billion devices. It’s a proud moment for Interface. Now, I’d like to introduce you to someone just a little bit special. I think you’ve all heard of her by now. With a hundred-thousand-pound contract, two hundred million views online and a lasting career ahead of her, she’s the new face of Interface. Here she is at last. Rose Ireland!’

  A ripple of excitement goes around the room. Dozens of people hold up their phones to take a picture. We were told not to use them this afternoon. But – yeah, right.

  Rose steps onto the stage, looking shy in her rainbow dress, accompanied by Linus Oakley. He’s grinning happily. She peers nervously into the crowd, looking out for us, I think. But we’re just three faces in the darkness. She’s never going to spot us here.

  When she reaches the lectern, the big screen lights up and Ivan announces satellite link-up with Shanghai. Which is kind of impressive, admittedly, and when they get it working, there at the other end is Roxanne Wills – in China, on tour – wearing yet another shiny mini-dress and cooing about how honoured she is to be a part of this Wonderful. Moment.

  Jodie flashes her phone screen at me. She’s found a little animation of cartoon eyes rolling. It saves her the effort of doing it herself.

  The clock ticks down. Ivan invites Rose forward to press a large, shining blue button sitting on the lectern. Jodie leans in to me and whispers.

  ‘D’you think it’s connected to anything? I can’t see any wires. Bet there’s a guy at the back who just presses a key on his laptop.’

  I shrug. It was Jodie, of course, who told me the
sad truth about Father Christmas and the tooth fairy in primary school. Sometimes the illusion is good.

  Rose hovers her hand above the button as the seconds approach 6 p.m.

  Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  She presses down. The screen above our heads flickers and switches from Roxanne in Shanghai to the Interface homepage. It zooms in on the box with the advert until that fills the screen entirely. The black background with yellow numbers that have been counting down for days shows 00:00:00, then goes black completely. There’s a collective shiver in the audience. Then it switches to the opening image of Rose at the white piano. She’s there in the white and gold dress. Beneath her, the real Rose closes her eyes for a moment and bites her lip.

  Two seconds later, though, the image disappears. The screen goes black. There’s the loud sound of recorded laughter. When the picture returns, it’s a shot of Rose in the studio, messy-haired and relaxed, trying something out and laughing. This time, she’s on electric keyboards. Her outfit is casual. The music that’s playing is no longer the introduction to ‘Living the Dream’.

  But I know it well.

  It’s ‘You Don’t Know Me’. This is our video. Somehow, they’re playing my song.

  ‘It’s us!’ Nell gasps aloud.

  It’s clearly not intentional. Ivan Jenks watches the screen, aghast. At first he’s paralysed with shock, but soon he starts making grand, panicked gestures to the technicians at the back. This obviously wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Real-Rose, onstage, looks astonished. Linus Oakley and the Head of Castle College seem positively scared. Another ripple goes round the audience. It’s a definite disaster of some description. All the students of St Christopher’s are delighted.

  I’m watching and listening, confused and mesmerised like everybody else. It’s only when the boy beside me waves his phone in my face that I realise the full truth: whatever’s gone wrong hasn’t just gone wrong on the big screen here: it’s happening everywhere. My song, and the video of us making it, is being played on a billion devices.

  Well, up to a billion, anyway. They won’t all be switched to Interface right now. But probably millions will be. Almost certainly millions. And there I am, in front, dressed as a chambermaid in a black skirt and black tights, and playing Jim’s fabulous guitar. Rose and Nell are next to me, singing happily, while Rose does her amazing thing on keyboards.

  I like it. I think we look good.

  Ivan looks in danger of exploding.

  Jodie nudges me, thrilled. ‘D’you think she knew?’ she whispers, indicating Rose.

  I must say, now her astonishment has faded, Rose seems to be enjoying the moment too. She did put the video together, after all. She doesn’t seem the least bit upset that the world didn’t get to see more of her in the tube dress, with a wind-machine blowing her hair, singing about deserving her success. But I can’t imagine her thinking of this. Rose was never a rule-breaker. Oh yeah – and she’s TOTALLY RUBBISH WITH TECHNOLOGY. This must have been some complicated hacking job, and it wouldn’t even have occurred to her. But, I realise, I know someone who might think of it.

  I look round the auditorium, searching for a particular head of sandy hair. The video finishes and the house lights come up. Everyone starts talking excitedly to each other and heads are bobbing around all over the place, but I just catch a glimpse of him near the back, sitting next to Jodie’s brother Sam. He’s watching the chaos with quiet satisfaction.

  ‘Who are you looking at?’ Jodie asks.

  ‘Oh, nobody,’ I say.

  Elliot dips his head slightly and puts a finger to his lips. I’ve never seen a boy look so pleased with himself.

  Reaching For The Stars

  For five minutes the adults rush around, panicking. Meanwhile the students get busy sharing the news with as many people as they can think of. I’d love to get to Rose, but Linus hurries her offstage and anyway, we’re surrounded.

  ‘Aw,’ someone says, ‘the ad box has gone black again. Look.’

  He’s checking Interface on his phone. I do the same. It’s true: they’ve finally found a way of stopping our video from playing. If you click the ‘Replay’ button, nothing happens. But on FaceFeed #adfail is already the top trend. And many of those feeds include a link to the original video on our band page. The number of views is going up by hundreds every minute.

  ‘I didn’t know you guys were back together,’ another voice says.

  ‘So, like, are you a band again?’

  ‘Did you do this in a real studio?’

  ‘Was that actually you guys?’

  ‘I didn’t know you played guitar, Sasha.’

  ‘Was that a Taylor Swift song? I really liked it.’

  ‘Does that mean you get the hundred grand?’

  We answer as best we can, but they never seem to run out of questions. When Ivan calls everyone to sit down and finally plays the proper video, nobody seems to care. I take the opportunity of the relative dark and quiet to send Elliot a smiley face. It’s all I dare type. He sends one back, winking.

  If I were Interface, I’d hire him. He seems to know a lot more about their systems than they do.

  Finally, it’s time for part two of the show: Rose’s concert. The auditorium is already filling up with a new set of Castle College students. I deliberately avoid looking at them closely, but Nell peers avidly into the crowd.

  ‘Ooh, I wonder if Call of Duty are here. D’you think they are, Sash? They must be. You haven’t seen Dan for a while, have you? Oh, look, there’s that mean girl.’

  She points, and I can’t help following where she’s looking. There, sure enough, is Cat, her shock of hair standing out even among the other big-haired girls in her group of friends. And three rows behind her is Dan. I wish I hadn’t seen him. I was trying not to. Worse, he happens to look in our direction, sees me twisting round and catches me staring at him, before quickly glancing away.

  Oh great. So he thinks I’m obsessed. Which I’m trying very hard not to be. I look away too, my cheeks burning, and luckily the lights go down.

  Onstage a gleaming black grand piano sits, spotlit, waiting. Nell grabs my hand.

  ‘I hope she’s all right. Seminal leotards.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Jodie says. ‘She’s done this before.’

  Not exactly, I think to myself. I hope what I said to her last night was enough. This may only be a school performance, but it will be one of the hardest concerts she’s done.

  Linus Oakley comes onstage and gives another long, excited introduction. Then he brings on a small band of professional musicians and three backing singers. They get into position and Rose finally comes onstage. She looks more nervous than she did when they were about to play ‘Living the Dream’ to a billion devices. Her face is white, but composed. I silently wish her strength.

  She sits at the piano and leans in to the microphone above the keyboard. She turns to the audience, takes a small breath for courage, and says,

  ‘When we put this show together, I didn’t know we’d be in this place tonight.’

  She pauses for a long time, and I know she must be sending a message to Dan. I glance round at him, but his face is emotionless, hiding his own hurt. She obviously hasn’t had the chance to talk to him yet. He’s still pretending they’ve never met.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continues, a little faster, ‘I’m very lucky to be here with the band.’ She introduces them, proudly, one by one. ‘We’re going to play a couple of familiar songs, and some new ones that I’m working on for my album. I hope you like them.’

  ‘Hit it,’ Jodie whispers, like a funk bandleader. But Rose is not a ‘hit it’ sort of person. She’s a ‘sit at the piano, close your eyes, breathe and wait’ sort of person. She lets the room settle, nods to the band, and starts to play the intro to ‘Breathless’.

  Unable to help myself, I twist round slightly to look again. Dan’s looking down at his knees. All I can see is the top of his head, but I would say his shoulders w
ere hunched and he was extremely tense. Jodie reaches out for my hand, meanwhile, and squeezes it sympathetically. Nell nods along to the song, still oblivious to the pain it’s caused me. I count down slowly in my head until it’s over.

  Rose waits for the applause to die down. ‘The next two songs get their premiere tonight,’ she says. ‘I wrote them a while ago, but I didn’t have the courage to sing them. I’d like to thank my friends for changing that.’

  She closes her eyes again briefly. This time, it’s the guitar that plays the introduction. It’s a slow, delicate tune, a bit like ‘Breathless’, but not quite as melancholy. After several bars, the rest of the band join in. Rose starts to sing, and her voice is warm and tender.

  It’s another song about a boy, and the pain of being in love. It’s beautiful. But when she gets to the lines,

  ‘I’m reaching out for you and you are

  Reaching for the stars’

  I know what it’s costing her to sing them here and now, with the boy in question looking right at her. I glance around again and this time, Dan is staring at the stage, transfixed. He looks thoroughly lost and miserable. I can’t take my eyes off him, and I keep worrying that he’ll look over and see me, but he doesn’t. I’m looking at him, he’s looking at Rose, she’s looking at her piano keys and pouring out her broken heart.

  ‘What? Why are you staring over there?’ Nell whispers, nudging and distracting me. ‘Is it Dan? What? Oh! Is he Breathless Boy?’

  She goggles at me. Wow – even Nell gets it within seconds of thinking about it.

  ‘Shut up, Nell,’ I whisper harshly. There are tears in my eyes. She sees them and pulls away from me, hurt and confused.

  There is too much emotion in this room and I want to get out of here, but I can’t. I’m stuck.

  The next song, ‘The Mistake I Had To Make,’ is just as good, and just as hard to listen to. It’s a massive relief when, after that, Rose announces ‘Living the Dream’.

  I wipe my eyes surreptitiously. When I glance round, yet again, at Dan, he’s studiously chatting to his friends as if he’s fine. Onstage, Rose seems better too. Her nerves are gone, and she’s almost relaxed. She launches into the opening bars and the song is just as smug and meaningless as ever. Thank goodness, because meaningless is just what I need right now. Jodie turns her phone screen on and plays me the animated rolling eyes all the way through.