Angel Dares (5 page)

‘Yeah right,’ muttered Alex.

I plonked myself next to Misty. With my two violins on my knee, it was a squeeze, but we managed it.

‘Two?’ asked Alex.

I patted the black rock violin. ‘One for stage—and the other because … well, just because.’ I had had a strong hunch that I should bring my folk one too. Savants learn to listen to instincts.

‘Angel doesn’t like to be parted from Freddie,’ explained Misty.

‘Freddie?’ Alex looked doubtfully at the battered case that held my second instrument.

‘No, she hasn’t got some creepy ventriloquist doll in there!’ laughed Misty, obviously having read Alex’s mind through their telepathic link. ‘Freddie the Fiddle.’

‘I should explain I named it when I was nine, in honour of rock legend Freddie Mercury.’ The problem about having such old friends is that they never let you forget an unfortunate nickname or silly thing you did when at primary school. At one stage, it had even been painted in Tipp-Ex across the lid. ‘I’ve not called it that for years.’ At least, not when other people were present.

The boot crunched closed. I hugged my violins closer to my chest, relieved I’d had the foresight to keep them with me.

‘Give me Freddie,’ said Summer. ‘I’ve room by my feet.’

‘You can have Black Adder.’ I passed her the rock violin. ‘Freddie stays with me.’

Dad tapped on the window and I pushed the button to bring it down to say goodbye.

‘Have a lovely time, all of you. Bring her back in one piece,’ Dad said to Will.

‘Yes, sir. Thanks for the loan of your daughter.’

Dad smiled doubtfully and then stood back to let us go. My parents may be reluctant to let me out of their sight but they don’t get in the way when they know I really want something.

‘I’ll text when we get there,’ I shouted out of the window.

Summer, as the most responsible English person present, was on navigation. She tapped the destination into the satnav. Will pulled out of my road and headed for the South Circular.

‘So, how long’s the drive?’ he asked, rolling his neck.

‘It’s quite a journey. We should be there in about three hours,’ Summer told him.

His shoulders started shaking with laughter.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘We’re setting off at the crack of dawn to drive for just three hours? I drive three hours in Colorado to pick up groceries.’

‘Brighouse is a long way from London,’ Misty said.

‘Alex, help me out here, bro.’

‘Small-island mentality, Will. You’ll get used to it. Misty’s trained me into thinking that anything over half an hour is an expedition requiring months of planning, scheduled stops and emergency supplies.’

Misty elbowed him. ‘Not true.’

He squeezed her arm. ‘OK—a day’s planning.’

‘Don’t knock your host country, William,’ I said in my best reproving manner.

Will tapped the brim of an imaginary chauffeur cap. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Left, William, we drive on the left!’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Our car selected the correct side of the quiet suburban road. ‘Just checking you were paying attention.’

We arrived at the campsite at lunchtime, joining the long queue of festival-goers filing into the field for parking. Cars had to be left some distance from where the tents were to be pitched so that meant we had to carry all our stuff for what felt like a mile. Will took pity on me and shouldered my rucksack as well as his, but that still left me toting two violins.

‘I hope you’ve got somewhere safe to leave them,’ warned Summer.

‘I imagine there will be an instrument store backstage.’ I edged round a puddle—wellies were packed, weren’t they? Summer, of course, had on sensible rubber ankle boots with Monet lilies on them, whereas I was optimistically wearing sandals.

Misty laughed and nudged Alex.

‘What?’ I asked. They were telepathically whispering again.

Misty blushed slightly. ‘I was just telling Alex: imagine, Freddie and Black Adder can nestle up to Kurt’s guitar.’

‘You think?’ Many of my daydreams featured me and Kurt Voss, lead singer of Gifted, jamming together and, well, other stuff.

‘No, I’m joking, Angel. You’d be lucky they let you anywhere near their gear—must be a security nightmare with so many crazy fangirls out there.’ She grinned at me. ‘I wonder what they’ll say when they find one has slipped through the net?’

I stuck my tongue out at her. ‘I’m not going to do anything crass. I’ll be professional—you know, politely interested? But first, I’m going for the mysteriously aloof girl haunting the green room, looking soulful with some dark delicious secret. Kurt will become fascinated by me and want to find out more.’

Misty snorted with barely suppressed laughter as Alex and Will chuckled out loud.

‘What?’

Summer fell in step beside me, neat black backpack settled comfortably on her shoulders so she still looked fresh. ‘I think you’d be better off being yourself, Angel. The strain of trying to be aloof will probably kill you.’

That was likely true. My shoulders slumped. ‘I expect they won’t let me within a mile of any of Gifted. But anyway,’ I lifted my chin, ‘I’m doing this for Will.
It’s all about you, it’s all about you, baby
.’

As I struck up the classic track, a favourite from my childhood, Alex joined in, adding the harmony. Will laughed and beat time on my backpack. Misty and Summer added their voices to mine on the main tune. Singing, we entered the campsite.

I approached the performers’ entrance a little fearfully. I would not put it past Jay to have failed to request a pass for me. That would be so like him: offer something then whip it away at the last moment to make me suffer and have to beg my way into his presence.

In the Portakabin, the security guard, a great black bear of a man, frowned down at the newcomer carrying two violins. I suppose I was possibly the only performer to arrive on foot and alone.

I put down Black Adder and showed him my letter of engagement. I had to go on tiptoes to reach the window, which made me feel like Frodo the hobbit arriving at the Inn at Bree where the big people live. ‘Hello, I’m Angel Campbell. You should have a pass for me, I hope?’

He took the letter from my fingers, scowled at it as if it had just bopped him on the nose, then he looked through a box of envelopes. He tugged out one with my name typed on the outside. Phew. Checking the address against the letter, his face broke into the first smile it had probably seen since England won the World Cup.

‘Miss A. C. D. Campbell?’

‘Yes?’

‘Initials AC/DC?’

‘Er, yes.’

He flourished the envelope. ‘Best group ever.’

I’d discovered another old rocker—that figured, seeing the job for which he had volunteered. ‘So my dad says.’

He handed down my letter and envelope with much more warmth than he had first shown me. ‘Welcome to Rockport, Miss Campbell. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m Al.’

‘Nice to meet you, Al. Can you point me to the instrument store?’

‘No problem. Head straight through the green room—that’s that circular tent. On the far side you’ll find several locked storage units. Your envelope contains the code for the one your band has been allocated.’

‘Great.’

He leaned forward over the edge of the window to take a better look at my luggage. ‘Who you playing with, pet?’

‘Seventh Edition.’

His face registered his disappointment. ‘Haven’t heard of you.’

‘Haven’t heard of us
yet
,’ I corrected.

He chuckled. ‘I’ll try to catch you on stage then.’

Pleased with that encounter, even if it was all thanks to my absurd initials, I walked swiftly to the green room. The festival site stretched over several fields and ended abruptly at the low cliffs of Brighouse-by-Sea. The short springy grass saw flocks of sheep more often than musicians in residence. There was still plenty of evidence underfoot of their habitation in little traps of dried droppings. Lovely. The performers’ area was established to the left of the main stage. That was famous for being built jutting out over the cliff with the stunning backdrop of the sea. Shelter was provided by the pine woods that curved around the site so from above, in the helicopter shots, the site looked like a half moon of green bitten out of the dark forest. Once filled with people, music, and lights, it was going to be stunning. I couldn’t wait.

I pushed open the flap of the tent to be greeted by the faint tang of incense. Turkish carpets covered the ground, muffling sound.

‘Welcome to the yurt. Can I see your pass please?’ The attractive girl on the reception desk glanced down at the envelope in my hand. Her brunette hair was swept up in a French plait and she was wearing vibrant red lipstick—no sign that she was roughing it in a sheep field.

‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I put down my violins and cracked open the seal. ‘And the winner is: Angel Campbell!’ I tugged out the blue lanyard and hooped it over my head.

She didn’t get the joke—or if she did, thought it too lame to be noticed. ‘Please wear your pass at all times and make sure you do not leave it lying about. We take security very seriously.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m here to help you with any of your needs—booking taxis, questions about how things run, changes to the performance schedule: you name it, I’m the person to come to.’ Her smile was automatic.

‘Thanks.’

‘The refreshments in this tent are available for you free of charge.’

‘Great.’

‘But we would appreciate it if you respect the privacy of other performers. This is the space where our guests are supposed to be able to relax and not worry about the press snooping on their activities.’

How had she sniffed out my fangirl propensities? ‘I understand.’ I was itching to ask her about Gifted but somehow I just knew that would go down like garlic bread at a vampire’s dinner party. She turned away and began leafing through pages clipped to a board. I hovered.

She lifted her gaze back to me and raised a brow—Lord, how I wish I could do that. ‘Is there anything you need now?’

‘I was just wondering who else has arrived already.’ There: that was nice and vague.

She glanced down at her list. ‘You are the first from your group. We’ve had a few early arrivals, mainly those supporting the show tonight.’ She ran through a few names, many of whom I had seen on YouTube or heard live. ‘The big names for this evening aren’t expected until after three.’

‘And … um … Gifted—anyone from that group here yet?’

Her expression hardened. ‘No. They don’t perform until Friday as I’m sure you know.’

‘I just thought they might send someone in advance, you know: to check things out?’

‘Well, they haven’t registered yet. They won’t be here until tomorrow at the earliest.’

Someone cleared his throat behind me.

‘If that’s everything Miss Campbell, I have to get on. I’ve other guests to see to.’ Her eyes rose to the person at my shoulder and her smile warmed thirty degrees.

‘Right. Thanks.’ I bent to pick up my violin but a hand was already on Freddie before I could reach for him. I straightened and found myself looking up into a pair of ice-blue eyes in a tanned face, topped by a spiky fringe of gold-shot hair. My lips moved before my brain caught up. ‘Oh my God!’

The guy’s lips quirked into a smile, revealing cute bracket lines either side of his mouth. ‘Not God: Marcus Cohen.’

Walked into that one, hadn’t I? ‘I meant … ’ What had I meant: you are so gorgeous that I couldn’t help myself?

He didn’t wait for me to embarrass myself further. ‘Here: this is yours, I think?’ He thrust Freddie at me. ‘Sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Henry, do you have a message for me?’

Henry—she who manned the reception—fluttered and batted her eyelashes at him. Even her cool efficiency melted in the heat of the dark-blond god’s wry smile. ‘Oh, yes, Marcus. Margot Derkx called by and left this for you.’ She handed over a folded piece of paper.

Marcus ‘OMG’ Cohen flicked it open. ‘Sweet. See you later.’ He strode off. Never had SuperDry beanie, long-sleeved grey T-shirt, and faded jeans looked so good.

‘Was that really him?’ I asked, patting my heart.

Still feeling the warming after-effects of his visit, Henry smiled conspiratorially at me. ‘Yes, Miss Campbell, that was Marcus Cohen.’

‘Call me Angel.’

Henry pursed her lips. ‘Angel: really?’

‘It’s my name.’

Henry shrugged. ‘Well, Angel, keep an eye on that one. He’s headed for big things.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that.’ I’d seen his face in the music press often enough and even cut out a photo to add to the guys who made the Wall of Buffness in my bedroom. ‘He plays with that new group, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Black Belt. They’re touring with Gifted. The three of them released their first album at Christmas. Very hot property at the moment: we were lucky to sign them along with Gifted.’

‘Very hot,’ I agreed.

Despite herself, Henry let out a humanizing giggle. ‘Uh-huh. You’d better call me Henry—short for Henrietta.’

‘See you later, Henry.’ I headed for the storeroom. This mission for Will looked like it might have some excellent side benefits.