You Don't Know Me Read online

  I’m walking outside near the main stage when I could swear I hear someone calling my name. It’s hard to be certain, because a large blues band is playing very loudly, through a speaker right behind my head. Still, I look around, wondering if someone from my class is here.

  Instead I spot a different face looking straight at me. A beautiful face, with storm-cloud eyes under a mop of dark hair. He looks embarrassed to be waving at me, and many boys in his position would probably have pretended not to notice me at all. But he’s too kind for that.

  Gentleman Dan.

  We meet up and walk as far away from the speaker as we can.

  ‘So, how are you?’ he asks.

  The last time I saw him, he was staring at his shoes while Rose sang about him reaching for the stars. Maybe that’s why my first answer comes out ‘Fhhhhggghh.’ But once I’ve cleared my throat, my second answer is ‘Fine’.

  We make polite conversation for a couple of minutes. His family’s fine. So’s mine. Call of Duty are OK. They have a new bassist, but apart from that . . .

  ‘And Rose?’ I ask. I can’t bear it any longer. I know she got in touch and apologised, and he went to visit her in London, but after that she stopped talking about him to me. I assume they’ve started dating again, secretly, like before, and she wanted to spare my feelings, which was kind of her.

  ‘Rose?’ he echoes.

  ‘Is she . . . OK?’

  He looks slightly confused. ‘I assume so.’ Then he looks embarrassed, as he works out what I really mean.

  ‘Oh. I saw her a while ago,’ he begins. ‘It was good. We’d both assumed a lot of . . . stupid stuff. She said you helped fix it. Did you?’

  I half nod and stare at the floor.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ he says awkwardly. And, realising that I’m waiting for more, he adds, ‘We’re not going out, though. I thought she’d have told you. We couldn’t make it work again. It was too . . . intense the first time.’

  Thanks for that, Dan. Way to put an image in my head I don’t really want.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘It felt too strange being back together,’ he goes on, even though I don’t need him to. Really. Fine with not knowing the details.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  He still seems to think he owes me an explanation. ‘It was weird, you know, after those songs. Her life is so public now. If we’d gone back out, everyone would have known about us. I mean, I’m so proud of her, but I don’t want to be the Breathless boy for the rest of my life.’

  He laughs, embarrassed, and I laugh too, to be polite. He already is Breathless Boy, without the ‘the’. To me, anyway.

  He’s still looking at me, and I know he’s remembering when that song played in the Land Rover, and the kiss that didn’t happen between us.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, softly. ‘About . . . everything.’

  ‘I know. You told me.’

  He laughs. ‘I seem to apologise to you a lot.’

  I smile too. ‘You mess up a lot, Dan Matthews.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose I do.’

  For a moment we look at each other and we wonder. There is nothing officially keeping us apart now. But we look and look and nothing happens. As always with Dan, the moment passes. There is too much history. Right boy, wrong time. I want to be the girl things got ‘too intense’ with, not the one who came next. His story was always Rose’s, not mine.

  Above us, a plane is flying quite low, coming in from the direction of the town and starting to form a lazy circle in the sky above us. We look up to watch it. It’s an old-fashioned red biplane, towing a banner, but it’s too far away for us to read the words.

  ‘So you’re singing later?’ Dan asks, changing the subject, keen to move on.

  ‘Yes. It’s the strangest thing. We really are.’

  ‘I bought the song. “You Don’t Know Me”, I mean.’

  ‘Wow! Thanks. You helped write the song, by showing me D minor. I probably owe you royalties.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  He reaches out and gently moves a stray strand of hair from my eyes. In the sky, the plane rumbles on, getting closer. Another festival tradition. Someone proposing to his girlfriend, no doubt, with ‘MARRY ME’ in big letters in the sky.

  ‘I’ll be there tonight,’ Dan says. ‘In the audience somewhere.’

  He dips his head to give me a fleeting kiss. The sweetest, softest, saddest goodbye. And then the tousle of his unruly hair disappears back into the crowd. For a while, I watch the space where he used to be.

  Two minutes later, I’m still standing there, staring into space, when Jodie comes up to me.

  ‘There you are. I’ve been trying to find you. Look.’

  She points over towards an old-fashioned Womble on a stick. Somebody’s holding it up, presumably so their friends can find them. It’s a festival tradition. There are lots of fluffy animals like this, bobbing around above the heads of the crowd.

  I can’t see what’s so special about the Womble, but my mind’s elsewhere. I don’t tell Jodie what happened with Dan. It’s becoming my Bigelow Festival tradition: kiss a boy and keep it a secret.

  ‘There! Can you see it?’ Jodie insists.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Well? What do you think? Come on. We’ve got to find Nell.’

  She seems bizarrely excited about this creature. I know Nell loves animals, but . . .

  ‘Wombles aren’t real, Jodie,’ I point out. ‘They’re from an old TV show.’

  I wonder if the sun is getting to her. Or maybe I’ve gone a bit crazy. I’m kind of devastated about losing Dan, but kind of OK. It’s only now that I’m starting to realise just how difficult it was, imagining him and Rose back together. Now I know they aren’t, the world is coming into a new sort of focus, and I’m still adjusting.

  ‘I don’t mean the stupid Womble,’ Jodie snorts. ‘I mean the plane. Look up in the sky. Big red thing. Noisy. OK, it’s turning now. Watch.’

  She puts her arm round me and holds me still while the biplane circles around and its banner comes into view. It’s two words. I have to peer closely to make them out.

  ‘Oh my God. Quick! Nell! Let’s find her.’

  We set off at a run, but with no real idea where we’re going. Nell could be anywhere by now. Around us, various people are gazing skywards, looking confused.

  ‘It’s for us!’ Jodie shouts joyfully at whoever will listen.

  A plane. Rose hired a plane. And now Dan’s not hovering beside her in my imagination, she’s free. I’m free.

  She hired a plane.

  ‘Look! There!’ Jodie says.

  In the middle of a busy pathway, Nell and her dad are standing side by side, stock still, staring upwards. It’s their stillness that makes them stand out. We rush over to them and all stand together.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Nell’s dad asks.

  ‘It means good luck,’ I explain.

  SEMINAL LEOTARDS, in big, black letters, flying above the festival, for everyone to see.

  Flying

  I text Rose, to say thank you. As usual, there’s no reply. She’s at an awards ceremony tonight, with Jessie J, and Adele, and quite possibly Paul McCartney. She’s probably at a spa now or something, getting ready. Like you do.

  But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere except here right now. The three of us spend a couple of hours listening to bands and eating junk food, ignoring the butterflies in our stomachs, mentally rehearsing our own numbers.

  I try to ignore the lyrics building up in my head about ‘right boy, wrong time’, and ‘the only kiss you gave me was goodbye’. That’s something Rose and I have in common about Dan Matthews: he’s world-class for inspiring breakup songs. Later, I’ll write mine, and I’ll feel better when the feelings become notes on the guitar and words on the page. For now, I just want to enjoy this special day.

  Gradually, the hill in front of the main stage starts to fill up. Lots of die-hard Jim Fisher fans are already getting into position,
making sure they have a good view of the stage. Normally, we’d be among the crowd. So strange that this year we’re heading backstage instead, to meet up with the band, stopping to sign the odd autograph and pose for pictures along the way.

  We retrace our steps to the artists’ area, flashing our gold passes at the security team. The band are waiting for us, chatting happily to the backstage crew. They’ve spent the day quaffing champagne around Jim’s swimming pool, and playing with his children. They’re all in a very good mood.

  Mum arrives backstage, bearing spare cupcakes from her stall, so that she can help us out. Our changing room is another Portakabin, smelling faintly of antiseptic handwash, where we spend a happy hour transforming ourselves into the Dream Girls, using the hair and makeup techniques we’ve perfected over years of practice.

  One of the crew knocks on the door.

  ‘Line check!’ he calls.

  Still in our day clothes, we follow all the band except Jim to the main stage, to check that the sound levels are right for our mics and the instruments. Jim’s staying behind so he can make a big entrance later. ‘Preserving the drama’, in fact. The rest of us spend five minutes onstage. I wish I could be wearing Nell’s glasses, but instead I half-close my eyes, so the crowd is one big blur. Then we head quickly back. Our set starts in twenty minutes. Now the equipment is ready, we just have time to change.

  ‘You have to admit, though,’ Jodie says, wriggling into her leggings and checking her top hat for damage, ‘it was kind of show-offy.’

  ‘Are we still talking about the banner?’ Nell asks.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Well, I liked it,’ Nell says, pouting into the mirror to check her lipstick.

  ‘I’m not saying I didn’t like it. I’m just saying it was grand.’

  ‘You loved it!’ I tease her, jostling Nell for space at the mirror. ‘You were like a little kid.’

  ‘I am never,’ Jodie huffs, slipping her feet into her glitter shoes, ‘like a little kid.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rose says, pushing open the Portakabin door, ‘was it too much? I just got the idea and I couldn’t resist.’

  WAIT.

  ROSE?

  We all look round. Nell drops her lipstick. I nearly strangle myself with a boa. Jodie practically falls off her shoes.

  ‘Rose?’ Long pause. ‘Aren’t you in America?’

  ‘I was,’ she smiles from under her large, floppy hat. ‘I landed this morning. Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘But the awards . . .’ I stutter. I think I know every day of her schedule. ‘In London tonight. Jessie J. Adele. Your heroes. It says on the website you’ll be there.’

  Rose’s smile turns to a grin. ‘Don’t believe everything you read on the web. I told them I couldn’t make it.’

  We cluster round her, eager for news. How was the tour? How did she get here? Is she in trouble? Is she going to watch us? Why couldn’t she make the awards? Even Kylie is going to be there. The actual Kylie.

  She just stands there, smiling, letting us ask questions until we’re all asked out.

  ‘The tour was good, but this is better.’

  ‘What? Better than the White House?’ Jodie scoffs.

  ‘Actually, yes. That was amazing, but this is . . . the best. I couldn’t miss this gig. I came to wish you luck.’

  ‘Like the banner wasn’t enough?’ Jodie asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Actually, no. When I thought about it, actually, no.’

  ‘And Linus said you could come?’ I check, astonished.

  Rose bites her lip. ‘No. He said I couldn’t come. He wanted a picture of me next to Kylie.’ There’s a flash of defiance on her face, but a frown of worry, too.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Nell says, ignoring the fact that we only have five minutes left to get ready. ‘Come and sit down.’

  She opens the door to the only seating area we have, which is a white plastic Portaloo. Nell closes the seat for Rose and props the cubicle door open with a shoe. Rose giggles and thankfully sits.

  ‘The thing is, I was in the limo this morning,’ she says, ‘coming back to London from the airport, and I was thinking about the biplane. I was checking it was set to go, and thinking what fun it would be, flying over the fields with all the tents and banners, and I realised I was jealous. Of a plane. It was crazy. It was here, and I wasn’t.’

  Nell laughs. ‘So?’

  ‘I suddenly thought, what’s the point of it all if you can’t do what really matters? So I got the car to turn round and take me to Reading station. It felt like the most rebellious thing I ever did.’

  ‘Oh lord,’ Jodie sighs, ‘you haven’t lived.’

  ‘I think I have,’ Rose corrects her, cocking an eyebrow in her direction.

  She looks around and grins. She’s here, tired and jetlagged, hair all over the place, sitting on a Portaloo at a festival, chatting to three girls in glitter, sequins and feathers, who are about to sing a couple of hit songs with a band of top musicians. Yeah, this is probably living. Although the ‘and then I took a car to Reading station’ probably won’t go down as major misbehaviour in the annals of rock history.

  ‘So are you going to sing with us?’ Nell asks.

  Rose’s smile fades slightly. She looks hesitant.

  ‘It’s OK if you’re too tired,’ Nell says quickly.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I mean, do you want me to? This is your gig.’

  The three of us stare at her.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, speaking for all of us. ‘We want you.’

  ‘What about the band? I haven’t rehearsed . . .’

  ‘They’ll be fine. We’ll improvise. It’s what we do.’

  We rush around madly, rescuing a dress from Rose’s suitcase (the one she wore at the White House, only slightly crushed), trying to sort her hair out, failing, deciding to hide it under the floppy hat. We talk to the band, who are perfectly happy – unsurprisingly – for us to be joined by a famous recording artist with a number one hit, who’s good at improvising, and who Jim Fisher is very fond of anyway.

  We’re running late now, but we’re the four of us, one last time. And yes, it was worth it. Back in London, Kylie will probably cope.

  While Jodie’s busy doing her vocal exercises and Nell is calling her mum to tell her what’s happening, I help Rose with her dress. In her bag, her phone goes off about once a minute.

  ‘It’ll be Elsa,’ she says, rolling her eyes Jodie-style and ignoring it.

  ‘Are you OK now?’ I ask. ‘Really?’

  It seems a bit crazy to be asking someone this when you’re zipping them into a custom-made black velvet evening dress, encrusted with silver musical notes, but I mean it. A life run by Elsa doesn’t seem perfect to me.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, seriously. ‘I think so. It’s kind of unreal, but the music’s real. That makes it worth it. Plus, Elsa’s working for Roxanne Wills soon, so I’m getting this sweet girl called Gitte to help me. She’s a jazz freak too. I miss you, though. So much.’

  ‘I miss you too. I bumped into Dan today by the way. He said you weren’t . . .’

  ‘No. And you didn’t . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  She looks at me and laughs. ‘I assumed . . .’

  ‘So did I.’

  There’s a pause while I zip.

  ‘Listen,’ Rose says. ‘There’s a producer in Malibu.’

  ‘What? The Malibu?’

  ‘Yes. I’m working with him on some songs for the album. He’s a genius. You’d love him. Do you want to come out, just for a few weeks? Maybe your mum could come and cook for us. You’d meet loads of musicians. We all hang out on the beach together and . . .’

  ‘Yes. Just yes.’

  ‘Oh, Sash! Thank you.’

  She squeezes me close. The White House dress is very prickly. I make a mental note not to hug her too often when she’s in her stage clothes.

  The summer stretches out ahead. Me. Rose. America. Music. The beach. And songs. A whole
summer of writing songs.

  By now, the backstage crew are getting nervous, and the crowd are chanting for Jim. Mum hugs us goodbye and the organisers shepherd us through a secret backstage route towards the stage. Nell’s the one who points out that this is totally like being in a Taylor Swift video. She’s right. Maybe Rose Ireland videos will be like this one day.

  I keep my eyes open properly this time. As we peer out from the back of the stage, Crakey Hill is stretched out before us, bathed in summer sun. Almost every bit of it is covered with people by now. Hundreds of them, hundreds and hundreds. With every moment that goes by, the gaps fill up and the sea of faces gets deeper. When the first band members take the stage, the crowd gives a roar.

  It’s like a living creature! A big, relaxed, cuddly animal, having a good time. Soon that crowd will be singing along to ‘Sunglasses’, then swaying to ‘You Don’t Know Me’. A billion devices all over the world are all very well, I think, but a thousand people who can sing your song back to you – well, that’s something else. The butterflies in my stomach, which have been fluttering gently all day, now start doing a full-on gymnastics routine.

  We walk to the front in our finery and hundreds of people start cheering. When Rose walks on behind us, unannounced, they all go mad. You can hardly hear yourself think for the noise.

  Jim Fisher comes on last, in a gold lamé jacket and one of his old silk shirts, slit to the waist, looking slightly ridiculous and very cool. The crowd goes insane.

  ‘It’s good to be here tonight,’ he says, filling the hills with his sexy voice. More cheering and waving. ‘We’ve got a lot of great numbers to play for you, but first I’d like to introduce some friends of mine. I think you know who they are. Here, reunited for one night only, I give you . . . the Manic Pixie Dream Girls!’

  I have never heard so much happy screaming. And then I spot something that makes me want to scream too. Almost everyone in the front few rows is wearing sunglasses. Silly, plastic ones, like the ones Rose bought here last year, that we used in our video. Some are dressed up as chambermaids. Others are waving feather boas and rocking sequin shorts. They’re here for us! Not just for Jim, but us too. I want to cry all over again. I love these people, each and every one.