My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (20 page)

Ruby Tuesday,

I’m supposed to be soundchecking right now, but I had to write you a quick note. It feels like we haven’t spoken for a while – I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, but I
guess you have been too. How did that exam you had this week go? Hope everything is good. I have faith in you – you’ll do great!

I hope I don’t sound crazy, but I really miss you! I’m getting so nervous now about Glastonbury – I’m seriously having nightmares about it. The only thing keeping me
going is that you’ll be there.

Don’t mean to get heavy . . . I thought of a record you might like yesterday. Maybe you’ve already heard it? ‘He’s a Rebel’ by the Crystals. I love those 60s girl
groups!

Anyway . . . Can’t wait to see you . . .

J xxx

It is dark. The coach has dropped us in a muddy car park and I can’t get my bearings. After all my misplaced confidence, one thing is obvious: Glastonbury is absolutely
nothing like Reading festival.

It’s immediately apparent that this is a very different set-up. For one thing, it’s about ten times the size. I always thought people were just showing off when they said that
Glastonbury kicked Reading’s arse – like, ‘Look at me, I’ve been to all the festivals!’ – but it turns out they were telling the truth. Glastonbury is like a
giant mythical city.

But we are yet to discover the inner workings of this magical kingdom. We are stuck on the outside. After our triumphant escape from suburban tedium, our day has not gone according to plan. It
has taken us much longer to get here than we expected; we thought we’d be arriving to enjoy the sunny afternoon, not rocking up tired and lost in the dark.

We follow the other people getting off the bus, but they all have their tickets and ID at the ready for the complicated entry system and head through heavily guarded turnstiles. Still hanging
around in the muddy car park, I call Jackson’s UK mobile number. I’m not even surprised when the annoying plastic voice tells me that his phone may be switched off – I tell myself
not to panic just yet. He doesn’t even have voicemail set up. I hang up and dial the number that he gave me for Sadie Steinbeck.

Before I even finish dialling, this plan – which seemed so simple and straightforward when I was planning the whole thing out at home – is starting to look somewhat flawed. The sheer
size of the place indicates that it might not be as easy as I thought to meet a total stranger at a vaguely specified meeting point.

I can tell that Anna is thinking the exact same thing. I’m trying not to let on that I am starting to feel slightly panicked. My phone reception is sketchy – presumably because there
are so many people here, another factor that hadn’t occurred to me – and it takes me a few tries before I can even get the call to connect.

The line at the other end rings, and rings. And rings. Interminably. Until it goes to answerphone. I had half expected this by now, but the disappointment is still crushing.

‘Um, hi. Sadie, this is Tuesday Cooper. I’m a friend of Jackson’s. I hope he told you . . . He said to call you when I get here – I’m at Glastonbury – to get
passes from you. For me and my friend. Well, we’re here. Waiting in the car parking field. So, could you please possibly call me back on this number . . . ?’

As I hang up it dawns on me that it was incredibly stupid just to turn up here, in the middle of nowhere, on practically the other side of the country, with vague contact details from a man I
barely know. A man who is famously flaky, who has been in all the papers because he is known as an unpredictable mess. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t seem like that to me; it
doesn’t matter that I don’t want to believe everything I’ve read. For all those hours on the phone, the dozens of emails and photos passed back and forth, there is no disputing
the fact that I have met this man only twice. I have schlepped all the way out here on a whim and a very shaky promise, and I have dragged Anna with me.

When I turn back towards her, tucking the phone into my coat pocket where I can get to it easily if it miraculously starts to ring, I am dismayed when I catch the look on Anna’s face, just
for a split second. It disappears in a flash, but I know I saw it there. I don’t blame her. She is wondering if I’m crazy, if I’ve made this whole thing up. Of course, beyond what
I’ve told her, she has no concrete proof that any of this is real.

‘I’ve left a message,’ I say, looking around and seeing not much but field and cars and fences. ‘Hopefully she’ll call me back really soon.’

We smile at each other tightly. Neither of us wants to admit defeat and ruin the spirit of fun and adventure. At least I’m lucky to be here with Anna, rather than Seymour or Nishi. Anna
and I at least share the same combined sense of optimism and politeness, which means we want to keep things cool in the face of adversity. Nishi and Seymour would be blaming me, bitching and
complaining by now. Plus, we know each other too well so we don’t feel any great need to be nice to each other – which is probably the wrong way around with your best friends, when you
think about it.

‘Shall we try walking around the edge a bit?’ Anna suggests. ‘Maybe there’s a way in somewhere.’

I’m pretty sure that, like me, she’s just trying to think of something – anything – to do, but I agree gratefully. We walk around, me almost buckling under the weight of
my rucksack and Anna shivering as it gets colder, but we see nothing to do, nowhere to go and, crucially, no way in.

‘Would you like to borrow my red American Apparel hoodie?’ I say eventually, glad to think of at least one thing I can do to be helpful.

‘No, thanks,’ she replies.

She’s trying to make her voice sound as calm and nice as possible, but that’s how I know she’s actually, secretly, really annoyed with me. I understand – I wish more than
anything that I was at home in bed with
King Lear
and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, and this was all
my
idea. Jackson Griffith is starting to feel like a very shaky mirage, even to me
– and I’ve met him.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘I know this is the most rubbish Glastonbury arrival ever, and it’s probably my fault for not planning better, but we’ve got four days for things to
get way more awesome than this. On the coach here I noticed there was a 24-hour service station a couple of miles back. I’m hoping this Sadie woman will call me back, but maybe in the
meantime we should walk that way – just in case?’

‘Yeah, why not? Maybe I will borrow that hoodie after all, if it’s OK . . .’

As we walk back along the main road, it’s like everything about it is designed to make life as awkward as possible for renegade pedestrians like us – it’s dark and feels
impossibly remote; when cars come past they roar at monstrous speeds. I keep one hand on my phone the entire time we’re walking, just in case, but it may as well be a stone in my pocket.

Then it starts to rain, a thin drizzle that turns into a downpour as we stumble along the muddy grass verge in the dark.

I actually want to cry. If I let go for a split second and allow myself to give in, I will dissolve into tears of disappointment and frustration and anger and shame. I will fall down and I might
not get back up any time soon.

Instead I force myself to burst out laughing – manic, starting out as fake and then veering into hysterical – until Anna joins in. The two of us laugh and laugh. I know without
seeing myself that I look like absolute crap. The flowers in Anna’s elaborately braided hair are kind of dissolving.

We link arms and power on.

‘Can you imagine if Nishi was here?’ Anna giggles.

‘Oh my god!’ I exclaim. ‘Thank goodness she isn’t. I’d never hear the bloody end of it. She’d be bitching and complaining and refusing to walk because she
hates walking. She hates most things, but especially anything involving physical activity.’

‘Yeah, but you know what she’s like – she’d have located us to exact latitude and longitude, and probably come up with some amazing idea by now . . .’

‘You’re right,’ I am forced to admit. ‘She’s gobby and annoying, but she’s got a brain the size of a planet. And she can be pretty funny when she wants to
be.’

‘I really, really miss her.’

‘Oh, Anna . . .’

We fall silent for a moment.

‘Sorry.’ Anna sniffs. ‘I’m not going to get all maudlin and silly. Hey, we’re here at Glastonbury having an awesome time, right?’ At this point she breaks off
into an appropriately ironic laugh. ‘I’m not going to dwell on it. What about you and Seymour?’

‘Oh, I just don’t know . . . Can we make a pact not to talk, or even think, about either of them? Just for this weekend. Would that be really bad?’

‘That’s probably a good idea. You’ve got a deal. But just before we start, I have to say – it’s so weird, isn’t it? I actually used to think you and Seymour
were so perfect for each other. Then again, I thought me and Nishi were too. It’s just all so . . . weird.’

We walk in silence for a while until – thankfully – after walking for literally miles, we come to the bright lights of the service station.

It’s lovely to be out of the rain, but it’s depressing at the same time. We are in a rubbish, generic service station on a main road through the countryside. The lights are
artificial and unflatteringly fluorescent, and the air is just a bit sad. Obviously it is not where we were supposed to be tonight. This is most definitely not VIP.

Walking past the newsagent’s kiosk, I spot a picture of Jackson on the cover of the
Independent
’s arts section. I don’t mention it.

We stroll slowly and dispiritedly through the food court and decide that we at least need something hot to eat. My phone still isn’t ringing, so we make a conscious, tacit decision to eat
our all-day breakfasts – very all-day since it’s now after midnight – as slowly as we possibly can. Like, literally a baked bean at a time. Somehow I still manage to finish mine
in about half the time it takes Anna to pick at hers.

Rather than admit defeat, we keep on chatting inanely, and order two more rounds of coffee after we’ve finished our late-night meal. I glance at my watch and see that it’s gone two
in the morning. A wave of sadness engulfs me – as I try to imagine what everyone else in my life is doing right now. I can’t believe that nobody in the world knows where Anna and I are.
It’s scary, as well as depressing. Thank goodness we’ve got each other.

I take another gulp of coffee to try to perk myself up, and start privately making plans for how we can get home as soon as daylight returns. I’m sure we will feel a bit flat about having
to head back to London again so quickly, but we can make the best of it. We could catch the first coach back and have an entire day hanging out in Camden Market or the big Topshop or Portobello or
something, and I could still get home in time for a full weekend’s revision. Anna could even stay at mine, and we can hole up for the whole weekend watching films and eating our way through
the remainder of my mum’s grocery shopping. Actually, that doesn’t sound too bad at all.

Maybe this whole stupid, doomed affair has all been intended to teach me a lesson, in order to learn that my boring little life is actually pretty great. Isn’t it . . . ?

‘Oh my god, Anna – look!’ I shriek. Out of nowhere, all these pure-hearted and well-intentioned thoughts instantly fall out of my head. ‘It’s Mad Reggie!’

As she doesn’t go to college with the rest of us, there is no reason why Anna should know who Mad Reggie is. I spring up from our plastic table, finding out in the process that I am
practically welded to the seat and my legs have gone dead.

‘Hey, Reggie!’

He’s in the KFC queue, with a small group of friends who all look as dreadlocked and mildly drugged-out as he is. Reggie is a bit of an urban legend at college – I see him strolling
around the hallways and in the canteen a lot but never in classes, and nobody is actually sure what he is studying or if he is supposed to be there at all; he’s rumoured to have been hanging
around the place for years, but I’m sure that can’t be true. Anyway, we’ve had some quite pleasant chats in the common room and always at least nod to each other in passing. In
this setting, surely that means we’re long-lost best friends.

‘Tuesday!’ He gives me a cross between a high five and a hug, then addresses his nearest friend. ‘Dude, this chick is called Tuesday. That’s her
actual
name. No
joke.’

I smile modestly, as he looks so delighted with himself it’s like he’s telling them I’m a celebrity or something. I feel like I should be doing jazz hands, or at least looking
a bit nicer than I do.

‘This is the craziest coincidence, man! It’s actually blowing my mind. You got to be here for Glasto, yeah?’

‘Um, yeah. Actually, it’s a long story. My friend Anna and me were supposed to meet, um, someone I know who has our tickets, but she hasn’t turned up. So, we’re kind of
stuck . . .’

One of Reggie’s friends looks over to our table, where I vaguely indicated. Anna is sitting staring out of the window, still looking undeniably winsome even after a long day of schlepping
and getting rained on. I suspect that I haven’t come off quite as well.

Anyway, there is really no point in telling this group that Anna is my best female friend’s ex-girlfriend. Although we are both damsels in distress, Anna looks much more damsel-esque than
I do.

‘Well, then you’re in luck – we’re here to save the day!’ Reggie announces with a crooked grin, touchingly pleased with himself. ‘We’ve got a camper van
because we’re helping out on a stall for some of our mates who are already in there. You two can bunk down in the back if you like. There’s not loads of room, but it’ll be all
right. If you’re stuck?’

‘Yes! Yes, please!’ I practically launch myself at Mad Reggie. ‘Anna!’

It has to be said that Anna doesn’t look completely jazzed at the idea of sleeping in a camper van with a bunch of crusties she’s never seen before in her life. I can’t blame
her, but it’s the best offer I’ve had all day and there is no way I’m saying no to it. Further proof that nothing –
nothing
– is turning out even slightly
like I imagined.