Live and Fabulous! (30 page)

Oh my God!

A morbid silence sweeps across the crowd. The large screens on either side of the stage are showing images of Twiggy, lying in a lifeless heap as the
Rolling Stone
photographer sits up, looking dazed, before attempting to resuscitate the guitarist. The guy checks the pulse on Twiggy's neck, looking panicked as he yells across in horror to the oncoming medics, “I think he's dead!”

Of course Twiggy Starr wasn't dead.

He was just concussed.

But he probably wished he was dead, because if Fenella Tack's expression was any measure of her incandescent rage, she was clearly going to beat the last remnants of life from him with a Miu Miu clutch-purse the second he reached the medical tent.

“Get that stinking carcass out of my sight, and fetch me another guitarist noooooooooow!”
Fenella screams as three security guards wrestle Twiggy's floppy torso away. Spike watches on in utter dumbfoundment, all his cocky swagger drained away.

“Find the stand-in guitarist!”
bellows Fenella, looking like a velociraptor in Chanel lipstick.

“But there isn't a stand-in guitarist,” shouts Spike.

Fenella's eyes narrow to slits; if her brow was indeed capable of movement despite the high levels of Botox administered to it, it would certainly be very furrowed.

“What do you mean no stand-in? Have you gone berserk!?” squeals Fenella. “You better be kidding me, Spike. This fiasco will cost our insurers twenty-eight million dollars to cover if we pull the gig after ten minutes!”

“I know ... but ... ,” shouts Spike.

“This is Silver Shard's premier chance to promote
Prize
to an estimated two hundred and twenty-three million people worldwide! And you're telling me we've got no guitarist?”

“Yes, that's what I'm telling you,” says Spike, practically blubbering. “Twiggy's the only person who knows the new songs.”

“I'm not hearing this!”
explodes Fenella.
“You put your entire trust in that washed-up, bourbon-addled burnout! Are you out of your tiny mind, Spike?”

Fenella looks like she's going to leap on Spike's chest and rip his heart out with her bare hands.

“Yes, I trusted him, Fenella! He's my best friend,” cries Spike. “He's been having a rough patch, but I didn't think he'd do this. I'll get him into rehab! I'll sort him out!”

“That doesn't help us now!”
squeals Fenella.

As the pair squabble, the sounds of growing unrest sweep the crowd.

“Spike! Spike! Spike!” the crowd is beginning to chant, accompanied by the obligatory throwing of bottles.

“We'll be back as soon as possible!” shouts the panicked emcee, appealing for calm, as Lewis the P.A. pushes Spike and Fenella into the wings where the LBD are all standing, watching the events in dismay. In seconds the yelling, posturing pair are joined by an army of sweating technicians and suited and booted record company executives, screaming about losing amounts of money so vast that Spike looks like he's going to vomit.

“But there isn't a replacement guitarist!”
screams Spike for the seventy-fifth time at a rotund toadish record company exec who is sucking on a Cuban cigar. “Nobody else knows the flipping new songs! Can't anyone hear me?”

And that's when I have one of those eureka moments.

“Claude! Fleur!” I shout. “Come on! We have to speak to Spike!”

Both girls stare at me in horror, but I grab their hands, dragging them with me into the growing dogfight, fighting my way closer and closer to Spike, although every time I get close enough to speak, one of the many record execs grabs me by the waist and chucks me back out of the circle again.

“It's not autograph time, little girlie!” shouts Fenella, clicking her fingers for assistance. “Security, chuck these three girls out!”

“Noooooo!”
I scream as loudly as my lungs will let me, stamping the foot of the black-shirted ogre who's lifting me up by my thong. “Spike! Listen to me just for a second! I know someone who can play!”

Spike freezes and stares straight at me. “What?” he says, his face softening. “How? This isn't a joke, is it, Ronnie, babe?”

“No! It's not a joke!” I persist, trying to remove my thong from my butt crack. “I met a guy who knows the whole of your album
Prize
off by heart!”

“That's impossible, Ronnie,” argues Spike. “It's not released for weeks!”

“It is possible! He ripped it off
RippaCD.com
!” I say. “Please believe me, Spike!”

“It's true, Spike!” shouts Claude, jumping up and down. “I've heard him too!”

“He's dead good!” says Fleur, nodding wildly.

“Er ... okay ... ,” says Spike, his eyes widening. “I mean ... wow! Where is this guy? Can I meet him?”

“Yes! He's ... he's ... er, out there somewhere,” I say, pointing ridiculously to the umpteen squillion people in the baying crowd.

Talk about finding a needle in a haystack!

Spike looks at us like we're insane ... but we're also his only chance.

“Don't worry. We'll find him!” shouts Fleur, pointing at the emcee, who is floundering in the corner with his microphone. “But we need that guy's help.”

Fleur darts across and begins whispering in the ear of the emcee, who raises one eyebrow, takes a deep breath and begins to yell into his mike.

“Hellllloooo, Astlebury! Errrr, we now have a vital announcement for one special audience member this evening! Could a Mr. Joel ... er, Joel what”—The emcee turns and shouts to us, “What's his second name?”

We don't know!

“Joel ... who drove here in a yellow van with graffiti on it!” says Fleur.

“And he's a lifeguard. A lifeguard who wants to be a brain surgeon!” I add.

“And he's got a best friend called Damon with a shaven head!” shouts Claude helpfully.

All this surreal info reverberates around the fields as the mystified crowd dissolves in giggles before looking to see if mystery man Joel is standing beside them.

“So, er, right, if that's you, Joel, please make your way to the VIP enclosure. Spike Saunders needs you!”

“Just give us five minutes!” I shout to Spike, praying with all my heart that Joel heard the call-out. But let's face it—he could be anywhere.

Claude, Fleur and I sprint down the stage steps, then spill through the VIP enclosure and out of the marquee down to the main gates. As we run, Claude's attempting to call Damon using a phone number she has scrawled in lipstick on an old paper cup in the bottom of her handbag.

“Agggghh,
it's going straight to voice mail!” she yells.

“I can't believe we're doing this!” I shout. “Is there, like, any chance he heard?”

“Don't fret, Ronnie,” screams Fleur. “Look! There are people at the gate already!”

Fleur's right. There are tons of folk at the gate already. About fifty chancers trying to blag their way into the VIP area.

“But I'm Joel! It's true!” a guy with buck teeth and blond dreadlocks is shouting. “Let me in now!”

“Ignore him,” a guy with a purple turban rants. “I'm Joel! Spike needs me to play! I've just been parking my yellow van, that's why I'm late!”

“Right, everyone, butt out,” a black guy in camouflage trousers and a trilby hat is yelling. “I'm the real Joel, you're all just imposters!”

“Oh, no!” I groan. Now we're really done for.

As we approach the rumpus, a hulking, ginger-haired security guy with hands like La-Z-Boy armchairs and a nose like a strawberry is keeping the interlopers at bay.

Haven't we seen him somewhere before?

“It's Hagar!” gasps Claude. “Hagar, the really quite Horrible! The guy who took our tickets on Friday!”

“The one who chose not to point out that we had VIP ones!” growls Fleur.

But just as Fleur opens her gob to say something ungracious, we spot someone who makes our spirits soar. Floundering among a sea of fake wannabees is the real Joel! Joel, with hazel eyes, brown hair and perfect teeth, flapping his arms and jumping up and down! Beside him, a highly irate Damon is trying to tell Hagar the truth.

“Joel!” I shout, but he can't hear me.

“We're here, Joel!” shouts Claude.

“Oh, hurray! You've arrived!” squeaks a rather bedraggled girl looming up beside us. “Everyone, look! Ronnie and Claude are here! They'll sort this mess out!”

“Er, yes, I suppose we will,” I say, slightly confused, turning to shout at Joel again. “Joooooel!”

“You look great, by the way. Love the outfit!” simpers the girl, who is covered in mud and grass stains.

Hang on a minute. I'd know that sickening voice anywhere!

“Panama ... er, Goodyear?” gasps Claude. Panama looks virtually unrecognizable! The elements have not been kind to her.

“Yes! It's me! Hello!” squeals Panama, spotting Fleur glowering at her. “Oh, and you've found Fleur too! What a relief! I was really worried!”

Things are now getting far beyond weird. I take a step back from Panama, who smells exactly like the porta-loos.

“What do you want?” I say, rather unkindly. I've got bigger priorities than chatting with Panama Bogwash.

“Well, I saw you girls up on stage,” smiles Panama, “and, y'know, heard the call-out for Joel ... and I just wanted to swing by and say hello!”

“Hmmm ... nice of you,” growls Fleur, pulling me away. “Come on, Ronnie, we've no time for this.”

Panama keeps on smiling, occasionally gazing past me into the VIP area where she'd no doubt kill for a hot shower, a Hazel Valenski restyle and a chance to hang out with the Kings of Kong, Amelia Annanova and Spike.

Not a snowball's chance in hell!
I think.

“C'mon, Ronnie! Hagar needs to know who the real Joel is!” shouts Claude.

In the middle of the scrum, Joel is pleading with the ginger giant from the bottom of his heart. “But I drove the yellow van! And I'm a lifeguard!” Joel is shouting, flashing his Charlton-Jessop municipal swimming baths ID card. “Please believe me! I know all of Spike's new songs off by heart!”

“ 'Course you do, kiddiewink,” chuckles Hagar cruelly, putting his fingers to his mouth theatrically. “So do I. In fact I'm playing one right now ... on my invisible pennywhistle!”

Hagar blows his invisible instrument sarcastically as Damon pulls Joel away.

“Come on, Joel, man,” grumbles Damon. “We're wasting our time.”

“You're not!” I squeal, summoning up superhuman strength and elbowing my way into the center of the group.

“Ronnie! Ronnnnnnnie!” beams Joel, throwing his arms around me. “Is ... is ... this for real?”

“Yeah, it's for real!” I say. “You have to come and meet Spike now! Come with us! And you too, Damon, you've got to come and give him some support!”

“Oh, hurray!” says Panama, clapping her grubby hands. “A happy ending!”

“Oh, no you don't,” sniggers Hagar, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no! It's not happening. Not on my watch. You know the rules: no VIP passes, no entrance. No exceptions.”

At this point I almost collapse into a heap on the ground with frustration, but Claudette Cassiera isn't playing ball at all.

“Right! Ooooooh, this is just about the flipping limit!” Claude yells. “Now then, Mr. Hagar ... Hagar ... What is your second name, incidentally?”

“It's Windybottom actually,” growls Hagar, daring anyone to laugh.

Jeez, no wonder he has issues,
I think.

“Rightio, Mr. Windybottom, sir,” continues Claude. “Now, just you listen to me. I've about had my fill of your antics!”

Hagar sneers at her, but it's definitely a fake sneer, because he actually looks quite shocked.

“Now, I don't suppose you remember me and my friends,” continues Claude, “but on our way through the gates on Friday you did us three ladies a heinous disservice!”

“Pgh,
I've never set eyes on you before,” shrugs Hagar, but a small flicker of recognition passes his face and he looks sheepish.

“You knew we had special VIP tickets! You just didn't tell us, did you?” hollers Claude. “I ended up missing Carmella Dupris's after-show party and hanging out with the Kings of Kong till this morning! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Hagar. That was one low-down dirty trick!”

Hagar looks more than a soupçon guilty.