You Don't Know Me Page 24

  When it’s over, Linus Oakley steps forward as if to thank Rose and the band, but she puts her hand up to stop him.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘there’s one more number I’d like to play for you this evening. Some of you heard a bit of it earlier, but it was cut off. I’d love it if you could hear the whole thing.’

  Linus stands there, frozen. His mouth actually gapes open. Finally, he gets enough movement in his neck to shake his head.

  ‘I, er, don’t think so,’ he says. ‘That was all a bit of a mistake. A technical glitch. We, er—’ He turns to Rose, panicking again.

  ‘Backstage just now, I’ve had so many messages about it already,’ she says, interrupting, looking him straight in the eye. ‘It’s something I recorded with my friends a few weeks ago. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Linus stutters, ‘but we haven’t rehearsed it. I’m sorry, everyone. We couldn’t—’

  ‘Sasha’s here in the audience,’ Rose says, getting up from the piano stool and coming to the front of the stage.

  There’s a ripple around us. People look round to try and spot the girl Rose is talking about. I’m shocked and shrinking in my seat, but Jodie stands up beside me with a wide grin and points.

  ‘She’s here! She’s right here!’

  Rose looks across at us, delighted.

  ‘Please, Sash? I’m sorry, I didn’t get the chance to ask you before. We ought to do it together, because it’s your song.’

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. I mean, I’m flattered, of course. Super-flattered. But there’s ‘nice gesture’ and ‘COMPLETELY STUPID IDEA’, and this definitely falls in the latter category.

  ‘It has to be you,’ Rose says. ‘Don’t make me sing it on my own, please?’

  There is nothing I would love more. That would be absolutely perfect. Rose singing the song on her own, making it famous, doing it beautifully. Exactly what I want. But she’s still staring out at me, pleading, and the audience are rustling and calling out encouraging comments, and Nell and Jodie are physically pushing me out of my chair.

  ‘Go!’ Jodie says. ‘Do it for us.’

  ‘But I haven’t rehearsed.’

  ‘You know it off by heart.’

  ‘Yes. But I haven’t got a—’

  Guitar. I glance at the stage and Rose is already talking to the guitarist from her band, who’s holding out his instrument to me. It looks gorgeous – battered and worn and much-loved. And I know for a fact it makes a glorious sound, because he’s just proved it over the last four songs.

  A sinking feeling tells me I’m going to do this. Somehow, I haven’t got a choice. It will be horrific, because Rose is, like, a genius and I’m, like, a beginner, but at least I know the song. A look at Linus’s angry, frustrated face completes my decision. Having broken us apart so publicly, he really, really doesn’t want us to get back together. Taking a deep breath, I slide out of my seat and walk to the stage, while my heart does a drum ’n’ bass track all of its own.

  When I get to the stage, Linus gives the audience a charming smile and grabs me by the elbow, pulling me to the side. Rose follows, looking angry. Linus switches off his mic.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ Linus asks her. He looks apoplectic. ‘Come on, Rose, think about it. First you split up. Then you get back together. You’re a soloist one minute, making secret band videos the next. Make your mind up.’

  ‘I have made my mind up,’ she says calmly. ‘Sometimes I’m a soloist, sometimes I sing with my friends. That’s music.’

  ‘What are your fans going to think?’

  ‘Finally, they’re going to think that I’m lucky to have some good friends who stood by me.’

  ‘Who stood by you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She glares at Linus as forcefully as he’s glaring at her.

  ‘Sasha’s been through hell because of what you told her to do, and she’s never said a bad word in public about you, or me, or anyone. Think about that. If it wasn’t for Sasha I’d still be a fat girl sitting on my own in my bedroom, hating the world and not believing I could do anything. And by the way, she has never,’ Rose adds in a low voice, ‘told me I was too big to sing love songs.’

  ‘I never said that!’

  ‘You implied it.’

  Linus stops trying to argue and gapes at her. Rose smiles at him serenely.

  ‘Fine,’ he huffs. ‘Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. I’m glad you’re happy. I just hope this is going to be good.’

  I don’t say a word. I’m just the guest artist. Someone gives me a stool and hands me the guitar. The audience claps and cheers. Rose gives me a satisfied smile. I have no idea how we’re going to do this, because we’ve never played it just the two of us, but I suppose I’ll follow her lead and we’ll make it up somehow.

  ‘You do the introduction,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll join in.’

  Oh. Fabulous. We’ll do it like that, then.

  I’m too high on adrenaline to argue. I strum the guitar a few times to get the feel of it, and practise a few notes. Even though I’ve practically lost the feeling in my fingers through nerves, the notes do at least sound like music, which is a start. I glance up, out at the audience and above, to the technical box, where I can just about make out the angular silhouette of Ivan Jenks against the light. He’s watching. I don’t want him to see me fail.

  And so I start to play. And from the opening bars, it feels OK. Nell was right – I know the song. I kept the chords simple, so I don’t have to do any virtuoso stuff. It’s beautiful to hear the sound the guitar makes, and magical when Rose joins in on the piano. It’s like we’re going on an adventure together, down a path we don’t quite know, through a bright, enchanted forest, holding hands.

  We sing the first verse and our voices easily mingle. They always did, of course: we’ve sung together for so long. Her smoky, warm tones blend gently with my ‘truckful of gravel’. I find myself looking out at the audience and not being scared to see their faces in the semi-darkness. It’s the same soaring feeling I got at George’s party and started to feel at the audition, before it went so wrong. I thought I’d lost it for ever but no: I can do this. In fact, I love to do this.

  Rose grins at me and gets carried away, getting louder and changing key so I have to think really hard which chords to use to follow her. It sounds amazing, though. By the time we get to the final ‘Get to know me’, I can feel my whole body buzzing with exhilaration. We play the last chord together and move in so we can hug each other. The audience whoops and cheers. It’s the best feeling in the world.

  *

  Afterwards, I long to talk to Rose about it, but Linus whisks her off to a special VIP area somewhere. Meanwhile, Ivan Jenks sends a couple of minions to find the rest of us so he can interrogate us about the new video, and what we knew about it, and whether we had anything to do with ‘this whole fiasco’.

  He calls us up to the technical box at the back of the hall and glowers over us, stroking his beard menacingly. We are, to be honest, brilliant. I’m still high from my performance, and Jodie and Nell understand instantly what we need to do. I’ve told them about Elliot, under my breath, but you’d honestly think they’d never heard of a computer, never mind a friend who could hack them. Nell is all wide-eyed sympathy for Ivan, I’m pure innocence and Jodie is flattering encouragement.

  ‘Why, that’s terrible, Mr Jenks.’

  ‘It must be awful for you. What could have happened, do you think?’

  ‘The video was on our band page – look – but how could it possibly have got into your system? I mean, you must have the most amazing security, right? Otherwise, nobody would ever use Interface, would they? They’d never put all their personal stuff up there.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ Ivan acknowledges to Jodie, gruffly. ‘We weren’t hacked, obviously. It must have been some mistake with the engineers. A glitch. We’ll be looking into it.’

  ‘Oh, good luck,’ Jodie tells him, with her TOTALLY SINCERE face
on.

  Sunglasses

  Next day, at Jodie’s, Elliot explains why he hacked the song.

  ‘It was kind of Sam’s idea,’ he admits. ‘He said Rose told you she hated the official one. And he told me about this great song you did together in the studio. I watched it on your band page. Then Interface did that whole thing about moving schools. I thought they needed a lesson.’

  ‘So you just casually hacked into their system and swapped the videos?’

  He tuts at me. ‘Not casually, Sasha. It took days of work. And a friend at their HQ who’s not too happy about some of the stuff they do. But it was beautiful, wasn’t it? I like to think of it as art.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I agree. ‘But just . . . don’t do it again, Elliot, please? You’ll get arrested.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighs. ‘Maybe. I think that might have been my finest hour. A billion devices!’ He grins.

  It was only available for two and a half minutes, but suddenly everyone’s talking about it. Funnily enough, it was the fact that the song disappeared so fast that makes it so popular. People keep saying ‘Oh, you should have heard it, it was amazing.’ Then they try and find the link to it on our band page – until the page crashes under the pressure, after half a million views.

  Dad calls from Vegas to tell me it’s just like when they first played Elvis on the radio and people rang in to beg for more. Dad calls quite a lot, actually, to tell me how many hits ‘You Don’t Know Me’ is getting (as if I don’t already know), and to sing me his Elvis version of it down the line. It’s surprisingly good.

  It’s Elliot who tells me I should put the song on iTunes, and shows me how to do it. It’s easier than I thought, and once it’s up there it sells ten thousand copies.

  A day.

  Every day. For three weeks. Which is not quite enough to take it to number one, but it’s still five times more than ‘Living the Dream: the Official Download’, as Elliot often reminds me with delight.

  It’s enough to make a lot of money. Enough to get me noticed by two record labels. Enough to make me certain that songwriting is what I want to do.

  Rose ignores everything the management team told her, and uses her page to tell the world how much our friendship means to her. At first, some of her fans try to talk her out of it, but eventually, watching the video and reading her comments online, they start to understand.

  Slowly at first, but in increasing numbers, we start to get more fans of our own. Not people who just like our page, but people who want to share something with us. This is different from ‘the one in the kilt has great legs’. It’s sharing something precious, something important.

  You know what it’s like to go through all the hate and you stayed strong. ‘You Don’t Know Me’ is what keeps me going in the dark times, when the haters try to get me.

  I’ve played your song a million times! It’s beautiful. You made friends again with Rose and your friendship is more powerful than all the hate.

  I love your video – it’s so gentle and inspiring. I want to learn to make music like all of you.

  Jodie’s busy with the school play and Nell’s smothered with science revision. Rose is on tour, but I take the time to answer as many of them as I can.

  The strangest effect of all is that lots of the people visiting our page to find out about ‘You Don’t Know Me’ end up seeing ‘Sunglasses’ too. Our silly, funny song about a messed-up relationship is viewed so often we release that on iTunes as well. It seems there are thousands of girls who love to dress up and be crazy. Who aren’t necessarily cool, and don’t necessarily care. They send us pictures of themselves in comedy glasses, boas and silly outfits. They do take-off videos of their own, which are fabulous. They proudly call themselves freaks and losers, and they don’t care. Just like we don’t, any more. I use one of the pictures they send as the new screensaver on my phone: four girls in sequins and spangles, laughing.

  One day in June, on my way out of a Maths exam I spot Michelle Lee waiting by the school gates, looking out for someone. As usual whenever I see her, I put my head down, but it turns out it’s me she’s looking for.

  She is super, hyper embarrassed about having to do it, though, and having caught my attention, she addresses all conversation to my toes.

  ‘Er, look, Sasha. My uncle’s the guy who runs the Bigelow Music Festival. You probably knew that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, he is. And anyway, he was wondering . . . He wanted me to ask you . . . ’Cause you don’t seem to have a manager he can call . . . Would you be interested in doing it?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘The festival. The programme’s sorted, but he can make space for you, because of the, er . . . you know . . . hit. I know you haven’t got a band, but,’ she rolls her eyes and swallows, ‘Jim Fisher’s a friend of my uncle’s, and he’s getting some guys together for a set, and they’ve offered to let you guys guest if you wanted. He asked Rose, of course, but she’s busy.’

  ‘Of course. Well, sure, we could think about it.’

  Rose is always busy. I think she’s playing at the White House around then. I suppose I could be insulted that we’re second choice after her, but, hello? The Bigelow Music Festival? Of course we’ll do it. However, it’s nice to make Michelle sweat a little first. She did threaten to kill me, after all.

  ‘So anyway,’ Michelle mutters in the direction of my ankles, ‘you could do that “Sunglasses” thing of yours, and the new song, and anything else you’ve got that’s, er, good. Once you’ve done the Bigelow Festival it’s, er . . . useful. For your CV.’

  She grinds to a halt, wincing with the strain of asking. In fact, she looks as if she’d rather die. I hope her uncle doesn’t get her to do all his bookings for him.

  ‘I’ll have to check with Nell and Jodie,’ I tell her.

  ‘OK. Whatever.’

  But I don’t really. I know already what they’ll say.

  For four weeks, we practise. Once exams are over, we spend our free time at Jim’s place, working in the studio with Jim and whoever’s available from his eclectic list of bandmates. They’re all old hands, who’ve been playing for decades, so they’re instantly brilliant at picking up the songs. It’s more about us getting good enough to keep up with them. We do ‘Sunglasses’ and ‘You Don’t Know Me’, and two of Jim’s old songs from the Eighties that we already know by heart.

  Now I understand completely why Rose put up with the stupid diet, and being made to talk about her parents, and Elsa, and everything else that Linus threw at her. If you can get to do this, even a little bit, you’d put up with anything. I can’t quite believe I have Michelle Lee to thank for this chance.

  Breathless Boy

  On the Friday of the festival, it chucks it down with rain all day, forcing everyone to wander round in shorts and wellies. Typical Somerset July weather, in fact. But the Saturday dawns cloudless and beautiful. The site is set into the bowl of hills beyond the town, with pink and blue flags fluttering above a series of big music marquees, while little festival-goer tents cluster around the edges, dotting the hills with colour. We’ve been going for years, but never on a day quite as perfect as this.

  Nell’s dad arrives to pick me up in the ‘band taxi’, with Nell and Jodie already in the back. Mum will meet us there. The festival is always a busy time for her. There’s a cake stall in the ‘Sweet Treats’ area that sells as many cupcakes as she can physically make.

  We drive down the familiar lanes, skimming overhanging hedgerows, past the station and round the edge of Castle Bigelow, towards the main festival entrance and then, beyond it, down a track we’ve never used before. We’re following signs marked ‘Artists’. Every time I see one, it makes me smile.

  Our set is not until the evening, timed to coincide with sunset. Jim and his bandmates won’t be here until later, but we wanted to make the most of the day. When we arrive, instead of having to queue for ages as usual, we’re whisked to a smart, carpet-lined Portakabin,
where a keen volunteer (who I recognise as last year’s head boy from St Christopher’s) gives our special, gold-rimmed backstage passes.

  ‘I am so getting this framed,’ Jodie mutters on the way out, marvelling at hers.

  I agree. I’m already wondering where in my bedroom to put mine. Or maybe I’ll just wear it all the time.

  The backstage area has its own tents for artists to get changed and eat, plug in computers and generally hang out. Wherever I look there are people I recognise from gigs and previous festivals, favourite records and even the charts. The Bigelow Festival isn’t big, but it’s friendly and bands like to play here.

  I can’t believe we’re really doing this.

  ‘Something’s going to go wrong,’ Jodie says, still mesmerised by her golden pass. ‘I mean, it’s got to, right?’

  I suppose it has, but I can’t think what, apart from sunstroke. There is still not a single cloud in the sky. The sun’s getting hotter by the minute.

  We head down the passageway to the main part of the festival, and out into the riot of colour that Bigelow festival-goers always create – by what they wear, and sell, and the huge festival flags they carry.

  ‘Can’t we just enjoy it?’ Nell begs. ‘Our last proper time together.’

  In September, Jodie’s going to the sixth form college, where they do much better drama courses than at St Christopher’s. Nell’s parents have announced they’re moving to Bristol, where there are plenty of schools offering great science A-levels. I’m trying to get a place somewhere I can study music and songwriting. The Manic Pixie Dream Girls are finally splitting up.

  We wander over to the ‘alternative’ tent where a folk band are playing wild ceilidh music, all bright strings and fast, rhythmic drumming. Nell spots her dad in the crowd and goes off to join him. I realise I’d better find Mum and say hello.