I whizz around to the side of the stage and duck into the VIP area at the back.
‘Hey lady, how are you?’ It’s Annie, and she looks radiant.
‘Not as good as you by the looks of it. You look sensational. Wow!’ I smile, taking in her white halter-neck playsuit and long chestnut curls loose around her shoulders.
‘Thank you. Oh G, I’m going to burst if I don’t tell you.’ She does a little squeal and claps her hands together.
‘Go on,’ I say, suddenly desperate to know her news right away.
‘Dan has asked me to have a drink with him tonight, just the two of us … When he comes off stage, he asked me to meet him here and then we’re going to his boat.’
‘Oh my God. Annie, that’s amazing. But tell me, when did this all happen?’
‘Well, we kind of got chatting while you were away; obviously I had to talk to him quite a lot. To, um, you know, make sure I got everything organised properly for the green room – his favourite fruit, snacks, drinks, relaxation methods, favourite shower gel, Cher let us have one of the en-suite bedrooms upstairs in the pub, that kind of thing …’ She grins, counting off Dan’s perceived requirements, one by one, on her fingers.
‘Obviously. In fact, I would have been extremely disappointed if you hadn’t bothered; it was a vital part of your role as team manager.’ I grin, going along with her enthusiasm.
‘Anyway, we kind of got close, and then he called me last night, on my mobile …’
‘I’m so happy for you. And good luck, Annie, I truly hope he’s your one.’
‘Thank you. I hope so too.’ And she heads over to the refreshments marquee that Cher has set up especially for the performers.
Jared, from Mulberry FM, is standing near me with a young boy of about sixteen who looks familiar. I think he might have been on last year’s
X Factor
and asked to leave at judges’ houses and, by the glimmer of terror in his eyes, I’d say he’d rather be anywhere but here. A rotund woman hovering nearby grabs his face and gives it a big squelchy kiss before wiping her fluoro pink lipstick stain off with a tissue.
‘That’s my boy. You show ’em son, you’re ready now. You really are! Whoop whoop.’ And she practic-ally drags him towards the steps leading up to the stage.
‘Hey, Georgie. You made it. How’s it going?’ Jared beckons me over once the poor boy and his awful stage-mum are out of earshot.
‘Good thanks, no disasters today, thank God,’ I say, scanning the backstage area just in case Tom is here somewhere.
‘What do you mean?’ Jared creases his eyebrows.
‘Oh just, you know, the stuff that went on yesterday …’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that. I heard from our news team that the local constabulary want to shake your hand – apparently they had been after that guy at the carousel for some time, so they’re delighted that you effectively handed him to them on a plate as it were.’
‘Really? Well, um, that’s nice,’ I grin, thinking how things have a funny way of turning out. Today sure has been full of surprises – who would have thought that Isabella and I would now be the best of friends?
‘Yep, sure is. And the festival is going really well. I’m surprised Dan isn’t here, though. His security blokes are, and his manager said he has a routine he likes to go through before going on stage – get a feel for the crowd, that kind of thing. He’s cutting it very fine. Perhaps you could give him a call and chivvy him along; the crowd are starting to get impatient.’
‘Oh, sure. I’ll get onto it right away.’ I’m just about to call when my phone rings. Lawson’s ‘Juliet’ blares out. Jared, who’s still standing nearby, looks up from his clipboard, rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He’s not a Lawson fan obviously.
‘Babe, it’s Cher.’
‘Oh hi Cher. How are you?’
‘It’s Dan, he’s been taken hostage!’ she cuts straight to the point.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, thinking this must be some kind of joke.
‘Exactly that! Hostage. Handcuffs. Locked to the bed. He was here in the green room one minute, tuning his guitar and chanting – I never knew he was a Buddhist: so cool,’ she pauses to catch her breath. ‘Anyway, some groupies turned up, ran in, body-slammed him and cuffed him to the bed. And now his manager is going mental. He only stepped out of the room for a second to get some drinks and they were in! Like athletes on the racket they were. And now they’ve barricaded the room, so we can’t even kick the door in.’ She inhales sharply.
‘Oh my God. But he’s due on stage any minute now – the crowd will go berserk if he doesn’t turn up. Shouldn’t we call the police?’ I ask, racking my brains for the fastest solution.
‘That’s the first thing I said, but his manager said not to. Not until we have, and I quote, “exhausted all the options”, I think he’s worried about the media getting wind of it and blowing it all out of proportion.’
‘I see, OK, I’m on my way. See you in a minute.’ I end the call before turning to Jared who, after overhearing me mention the police, is now standing right next to me with a concerned look on his face.
‘What’s going on?’
‘That was Cher! Apparently Dan is being held hostage by some crazeee groupies in a bedroom at the pub.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘You’re joking, it’s a wind-up, right?’
‘I wish it was.’ I toss my phone into my bag and go to leave.
‘Hold on.’ Jared puts a hand on my shoulder and I turn back to face him. ‘I’m coming too.’ He looks frazzled.
‘But you can’t, what about the music festival? Aren’t you in charge of it?’
‘Yep, but if Dan isn’t here to go on stage, then what’s the bloody point? He’s the headline act, the one all these people have come to see. And he’s supposed to be on stage in ten minutes! He can be a bit fashionably late – the crowd will wear a short wait – but not a no-show.’
Jared races over to a guy wearing big headphones and thrusts the clipboard into his hands while simultaneously motioning for The Mulberry Mittens to get back on stage pronto. The guy nods back at Jared and gives him a man-hug. Jared is back beside me. We run as fast as we can out of the backstage area, across the pebbles and into the Hook, Line and Sinker pub.
Cher, looking totally stressed, comes bombing over to us.
‘What a nightmare!’ she puffs, chewing her gum frantically. ‘I’m so sorry—’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Jared says, standing next to Cher.
‘If it’s anyone’s fault, then it’s mine.’ A guy steps forward, running a hand through his hair. ‘I’m Dan’s manager by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Jared and I say.
‘I really think we should call the police,’ I suggest again, thinking it could take ages to talk the fangirls round and we just don’t have the time. ‘They’ll probably panic if the actual police turn up, and open the door in any case.’
‘But Dan won’t thank me if this turns into a media frenzy, and that’s exactly what will happen if we call the police in. There are already paps hanging around on the beach hoping to get the money shot before he goes on stage.’ He shakes his head.
‘OK, but we have to do something, because I’m sure as hell not telling the crowd that their idol, who they’ve been waiting months for, and now all day to see, here in their hometown of Mulberry, isn’t turning up,’ Jared says. ‘And what if they want a ransom? Or have set traps and stuff up there that get triggered when the door goes in? Do you know how to diffuse a bomb, because I sure as hell don’t!’ We all stare at Jared, goggle-eyed and speechless.
‘Look, why are we hesitating? This is ridiculous. I vote for calling the police and getting them to kick the door in. Done. We can chase away the paps or something,’ I say, knowing if we don’t sort this out soon and get Dan on the stage then that massive crowd will hate Carrington’s for promising their idol and then letting them all down. That’s hardly going to foster good relations in the local community – those girls, the DKers or whatever they call themselves, are definitely a force to be reckoned with. Plus, they’re customers, their families too. Mr Dunwoody will be raging when he has them all beating a path to his constituency office to complain.
‘Please, no police! Jared, you’ve obviously been playing too many games on your Xbox or whatever. They’re teenage girls, they don’t have bombs or traps or anything,’ Dan’s manager says, trying to laugh it off, but there’s a dart of fear in his eye. A short silence follows while we all stare at each other.
‘Look, if you’re adamant about no police involvement, then I have another idea,’ I say, pulling out my notebook. I thumb through until I find my list of contact numbers.
‘Go on,’ Jared says.
‘You’ll see.’ I rush to punch out the number and luckily he answers right away.
A few minutes later, and commando man – the owner of the Mulberry Sound and Vision TV shop is running full pelt towards us like he’s auditioning for
The Hunger Games
– he’s wearing full-body black neoprene with a padded section to protect his vital organs, has a coil of thick rope in one hand and a proper bow and arrow in a holster slung over his left shoulder. He comes to a halt in front of me.
‘You rang!’ And for some ludicrous reason I have to stifle a laugh. I don’t know if it’s the bizarre circumstances I’m in, or that he looks totally ridiculous, but I cover my mouth with my hand and will myself to get a grip, truly hoping he does actually have some combat experience and doesn’t just like dressing up. ‘So what’s the MO?’ he asks in a deadly serious voice, his face set like concrete.
‘Um, MO?’ I ask, baffled.
‘Modus operandi?’ commando man explains.
‘Dan is being held hostage in one of the bedrooms upstairs and we have no idea what ammo they have in there.’ Jared offers a brief summary, throwing Dan’s manager a pointed look.
‘And we need to get him out and back to the concert in like …’ Dan’s manager pauses to check his watch. ‘
Now!
’ He paces up and down. ‘Jesus, the fans will go mental if we don’t get him there. But we must do it with the minimum fuss possible. If the media get wind of this, those fans will implode. I’m telling you now, they live for Dan, and I sure as hell don’t want a mass suicide on my hands.’ He stops pacing.
‘Which room is it?’ commando man asks Cher.
‘Follow me.’ And she goes to show him the way, but he swiftly places a hand on her arm to stop her.
‘Just tell me.’ Cher points to the room above us.
‘Right. I’m going in.’ And commando man strides off upstairs. We follow close behind. He stops on the landing and puts a finger to his lips, presumably so as not to alert the groupies who are singing ‘Sweet Sugar’ at the tops of their voices from the room at the end of the corridor. ‘Stand back,’ he whispers, lifting his right foot up as if to boot the door in.
‘Hang on. What are you doing?’ Dan’s manager hisses, his face creased with concern.
‘Have you got a better idea?’ commando man mouths.
‘Um, no, but what if they have set up a trap on the door?’ Dan’s manager whispers back.
‘Hmm. OK, I’ll find another entry point.’ And he runs back downstairs with us all following close behind.
We’re in Cher’s private garden at the back of the pub now, and commando man has lassoed a length of rope up and over the roof. And, oh my God, he’s shinning up a drainpipe, just like Spider-Man, he’s that fast; because, within seconds, he’s smashed through the bedroom window. And all hell breaks loose. Teenage girls are everywhere after fleeing the room and racing out of the pub – screaming and shrieking, jumping up and down and flapping their arms around. There must be at least ten of them in the garden now, blaming each other and saying stuff like ‘grow some tits’ and ‘bore off and die’. Commando man appears at the window gripping Dan’s arm up in the air like a trophy and the screaming intensifies to near hysteria with them surging forward and shouting, ‘Ohmigod he’s sooooo quiche!’
‘Now you can call the police!’ Dan’s manager bellows to me, before bombing back into the pub to get Dan and race him to the stage.
W
hat a day! And it’s a welcome relief to see the regatta drawing to a close. The still-warm sun is sinking slowly when I make it to Carrington’s, and the last of the regatta visitors are dawdling on their way home – eating ice creams and candy floss, the children being carried, sleepy but still clutching their helium banana balloons.
‘It’s all ready for you, my dear.’ It’s Mrs Grace, and she gives me a conspiratorial wink. And I gasp. It’s so much better than I ever imagined. I rang Mrs Grace from inside Marco’s ice-cream van and asked if she would mind leaving the beautiful twinkling lights in place for a very special last event – a surprise for Tom! And, right on cue, my phone buzzes with a text message reply from him.
OK. See you at 9 x
And my hands tremble with relief. Relief that he actually got the last message I sent, also from Marco’s van, asking if he could join me for a very special ‘apology picnic’ here inside the Carrington’s tunnels, where it all began, where we first met. I was going to come up with some pretext to lure him here, seeing as it’s pretty obvious by his silence that he’s still cross with me, but I figured it best to be honest about my intentions, something I should also have been months ago, instead of dithering when he asked me to move in with him.
‘You’d better hurry; he’ll be here soon. Come on, I’ll give you a hand – best be organised before he gets here.’ Mrs Grace grabs the blanket and the cushions from my arms and leads me further into the tunnel. ‘There’s a brilliant spot just around this corner.’ And she shows me a glorious little opening where the four tunnels come together in a circular junction; it even has an old-fashioned lamp on one wall and carved low wooden benches running around the sides. ‘I thought you could put the cushions on the benches and lay the picnic out on the blanket in the middle – like in a Bedouin tent. My Stan’s niece did exactly that for her wedding breakfast and it was wonderful. We all sat around on the floor, very bohemian.’ She smiles, getting into the romance of it all. ‘Mind you, my Stan is still moaning about his stiff knees, and it was months ago now.’ She shakes her head with a look of sheer exasperation on her face.