Forever Phoenix Page 9

  That night, I add Lee’s crumpled note to the Quality Street tin. Marley is right. Something very special is happening here, and I can’t quite believe I’m part of it. Something special could happen between me and Lee, too … if I am brave enough to let it. I fit the lid back on the Quality Street tin, smiling.

  14

  Countdown

  My mother does not believe in FaceTime or phone calls or social media, not unless they’re something to do with work. No, she gets out her fountain pen and her fancy watermarked paper and writes me a letter, and she doesn’t even sign it with a kiss. There is no mention of missing me, but what’s new?

  Anyhow, the letter must mean that she cares, at least a little bit. She has failed to mould me into a carbon copy of herself, an acceptable daughter. From the moment I started to show a streak of rebelliousness, a longing to run wild, climb trees, argue back, the message has been loud and clear – I am not the kind of daughter Mum was hoping for. She has written me off as a hopeless case, a truant, a troublemaker … but maybe I can still make her proud? Maybe.

  I might send her an email and tell her about the gig, anyhow.

  I look at the calendar in the kitchen and cross off another day. Eight days until the Christmas lights switch on … and, in spite of the gorgeous coffee shop mini gig and the flurry of Instagram pictures and posts that followed, I still have a sick, sour feeling in my belly when I think about it. The event has been advertised in the local paper – a reporter came along to the old railway carriage and took some photos and asked questions, and yesterday there was a feature about our new line-up and how ‘the band’s new lead singer, flame-haired teen Phoenix Marlow, delighted two young fans by singing specially for them in the Leaping Llama’.

  Cringe.

  The last time I passed Matt Brennan at school, he snarled at me and called me something very rude, so I called him something even ruder back. I think he is furious that he missed out on the latest Lost & Found ‘scoop’.

  As for Marley, he’s clipped out the newspaper piece and sent it to Ked Wilder, along with an invitation to come and watch the show. I thought he was joking but Bex and Lexie insist he’s not. Apparently Ked is a big fan of the Lost & Found and was keen to help them record their first EP, before Sasha got ill and the whole project fell to bits. He even had plans to get the band on the Lola Rockett Show, which is hands down the coolest TV music show ever, but that didn’t happen, of course.

  Getting Ked back on side would be a real achievement.

  I mention it to Grandma Lou and she says that if he does come he can stay here, because they’re best friends and never miss a chance to catch up. It’s not that I am mad about his music or anything, but I can’t help being impressed because Ked Wilder is properly famous, and who wouldn’t want to meet a sixties pop legend? Maybe he can give me some tips on how not to feel sick about performing on stage.

  I am definitely getting on top of the playlist now. With daily rehearsals and a healthy dose of terror about what might happen if I mess up, the songs are sounding slick and strong, and the band are pitch perfect on the accompaniments Marley has drawn up for them. The sound is loud and sassy and dancier than before, a crazy mix of stroppy and joyful. I love it.

  ‘It sounds so different when you sing it,’ Lexie says at practice, later that day. ‘Different, but good! Like you’ve turned it inside out and dipped it in darkness and magic!’

  ‘Thank you, I think!’

  ‘Something special,’ Lee reminds me, reunited once more with his battered trilby – I found it in the old oak tree and staged a rescue, but the hat is even more bedraggled than before. Lee doesn’t seem to mind, though, and I like him for that. One day, when I’m old and grey and all this Lost & Found stuff is over and Lee is just a distant memory, I’ll be able to look through the old Quality Street tin with all my treasures – the diaries, the lists, the poems, the pictures, the letters from Mum and the note from Lee … the little pieces of my past. It will always make me smile.

  ‘Was I right about this, or was I right?’ Marley crows as another song pulls to a close. ‘We are so ready for this gig. This is the best we’ve ever been, and we still have a week to polish and perfect things. The gig is going to be epic!’

  ‘If we don’t all die of exhaustion first,’ Bex grumbles. ‘You’re pushing us too hard. I’ve got GCSE mocks to revise for, y’know … There’s more to life than music!’

  ‘Not much more,’ Marley says with a grin. ‘Things happen fast in this industry, and we can’t afford to waste a minute. Now we’re back on track again, we might be able to pick things up again with Ked Wilder and get that EP out before Christmas. Maybe we can still get on to the Lola Rockett Show.’

  Lee shakes his head. ‘Marley, man, that’s not gonna happen! Be realistic!’

  ‘Being realistic won’t get us anywhere,’ Marley declares. ‘I’m telling you, if we get on Lola Rockett’s New Year show we’re made. It’s a ticket to stardom!’

  ‘But we don’t have a record deal or an EP yet,’ I argue. ‘Let’s not run before we can walk!’

  ‘Phoenix, Phoenix, wake up and smell the coffee!’ Marley says. ‘We are not going to get anywhere taking baby steps. We have to run – not just run, we have to sprint as if our lives depend on it! This is a race to the top, and Lola Rockett can help us get there!’

  Bex rolls her eyes. ‘You’re on a whole different planet to the rest of us, Marley. Get real!’

  ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he counters. ‘Listen – changing the subject – I think we should cover a Christmas song as our finale at the festival … The crowd would love it!’

  ‘They would,’ Lee admits grudgingly. We debate for a while about the best song before settling on an old-timey classic called ‘Let it Snow’. Marley has already messed about with the tune and the tempo, giving it a fresh feel and showcasing the violins, cello, flute and trumpet. I have a go at singing it with the others doing their best to support, and even in that ragged state it sounds pretty awesome.

  ‘Marley is a full-on megalomaniac with slave-driver tendencies and zero people skills,’ Lee tells me under his breath. ‘He does care, though, and his instincts are good most of the time.’

  ‘I guess he’s OK as tyrants go,’ I say.

  Six days before the gig, Sasha comes to the old railway carriage after rehearsal to show us her styling ideas. She has two main looks – one with the whole band dressed in outsize red sweaters with black skinny jeans or leggings, and the other based on magpie chic, with everyone in ragged blue-black costumes, twigs and feathers in their hair.

  ‘The first look would be cheap to do … I can get charity-shop jumpers, and as this is an outdoor event in December, it might be the best choice.’

  I run a finger lightly across the magpie drawings. ‘These, though … they’re amazing!’ I say. ‘Just stunning, Sasha … You’re so talented!’

  She looks pleased at the compliment. ‘I got the idea from Pie, obviously,’ she says. ‘He’s so cool! I know he can’t come to actual gigs with you, so I was thinking of ways to keep that same kind of vibe …’

  Pie, bored with perching on my shoulder to inspect the designs, flutters off to patrol the countertop in search of biscuit crumbs. When I look over he is gazing at his own reflection in a shiny silver spoon … he really is the vainest magpie ever.

  ‘Why can’t Pie come to gigs?’ I question. ‘He doesn’t mind loud music – he’s used to everyone in the band now …’

  ‘You’d bring him to gigs?’ Marley echoes. ‘Wow! That’d really set us apart from the crowd!’

  ‘He’s my lucky charm,’ I explain. ‘He makes me feel more confident, that’s all.’

  ‘In that case he’s coming to every performance,’ Marley says. ‘On the plus side, he already has a magpie costume …’

  ‘If we do use this idea, I’d do blue-green iridescent make-up to go with it … and paint feathers on your hands and arms. It’d look amazing with your flame-red hair, Phoenix!’
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  ‘It would,’ Marley agrees. ‘But no way could you make all the costumes in six days. Just getting the feathers would be a nightmare. Let’s save the magpie theme for whatever comes next …’

  ‘Sure,’ Sasha says. ‘The jumpers will be way easier to sort. I’m going to do everything I can to help the band get their breakthrough moment, Marley, even though I’m not on stage any more.’

  ‘I know, Sash,’ Marley says. ‘We hated to lose you, but look at how you’ve been these last few weeks – like a weight’s been lifted from your shoulders. And you’ll always be a part of the Lost & Found – without you we wouldn’t have a proper look, we’d just be a bunch of teenagers in random clothes …’

  Sasha beams. ‘Thanks, Marley. I’ve already found a gorgeous moss-green mohair jumper for you, Phoenix. It’ll single you out as the lead singer and it’ll look incredible with your hair …’

  ‘Cool,’ I say, and try to ignore the churning in my belly.

  Two days before the gig, Grandma Lou tells me that Ked Wilder will indeed be coming, and he will indeed be staying at Greystones. I pass this information on to Marley in the school lunch hall.

  ‘I knew it!’ he yells. ‘I totally knew it! Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say he’d come? Didn’t I say you should trust me?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Bex grumbles.

  ‘Well, I was right, wasn’t I? This is it. Ked really believes in us, and this time we’re going to nail it!’

  No pressure, then.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Marley,’ George says with a sigh. ‘Things have changed a lot since Ked last saw us play …’

  ‘In a good way, though,’ Marley argues. ‘We’ve stepped up a level since Phoenix joined, I keep telling you!’

  George looks gloomy, but he holds Marley’s gaze. ‘Yeah, you keep telling us,’ he says, and he pushes his chair back and picks up his rucksack and walks away, leaving a plate of untouched curry and rice on the table.

  ‘OK,’ Marley says. ‘He’s not happy, is he?’

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ Sami says. ‘I understand … not so much cello, not so much flute. Things change. Whatever!’ He shoulders his bag and hurries after George.

  ‘OK, so there’s less flute and cello in the new arrangements,’ Marley says, exasperated. ‘So what? We’re a pop band, not an orchestra! We have to think about what our fans want!’

  ‘Maybe our fans like flute and cello?’ Lexie says. ‘I know I do. And maybe George and Sami are tired, too, Marley – you’ve been pushing us all to the max. Anyone else here remember when being in a band used to be fun?’

  Lexie shoves her plate away and follows George and Sami.

  ‘That I did not expect,’ Marley says, biting into his toasted cheese sandwich. ‘They’re dropping like flies. Better see if I can talk them round.’ He saunters off to make the peace, but I’m panicking. A small rebellion seems to be brewing because things have changed, and things have changed because of me.

  ‘Is this my fault?’ I say in a very small voice.

  ‘No,’ Bex argues. ‘If anything, it’s Marley’s for making things happen too fast and putting us under so much pressure. He has no patience – he wants fame, fortune and mass adulation, preferably by tomorrow.’

  ‘My brother’s a megalomaniac,’ Dylan agrees. ‘Fact.’

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ Happi promises. ‘Things always get a bit stressy when we have a big gig looming – it’s happened before and it’ll happen again. Nobody’s fault.’

  But it feels like mine.

  15

  The Point of No Return

  Mum doesn’t come, of course. I didn’t think she would, but even so I let myself hope, just a little bit. This morning’s email reply, a terse three lines, dismisses my request as far too late and far too silly. I feel like an irritating kid clamouring for her mum’s attention all over again … It’s a place I’ve been so many times before.

  I delete the email and tilt my chin up, determined not to let the hurt show.

  I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was ten years old, the summer before I started at Bellvale. Mum had been promoted to school principal and we’d moved out of the village into a small cottage on the Bellvale grounds. That six weeks was the only time I spent there, really … after that, I moved into the dorm and the game of pretending that Vivi Winter was not my mother began.

  That first summer, though, we were the only people at Bellvale, apart from a few workmen painting classrooms and plastering walls. Mum was busy with her conquering-the-world plans, so I roamed all over the grounds, climbed the hills, prowled through the woods. I found an unlocked bicycle in one of the storerooms and taught myself to ride, and after a few circuits of the drive I wheeled it up to the top of a hill and pushed off.

  When you’re freewheeling you start slowly, wobbling, and then you pass the point of no return and the wheels are spinning and the bike clatters over potholes and stones, shaking your bones so hard it’s a miracle you don’t fall off into the nearest ditch – but you don’t, you hang on. You hang on for dear life with the wind in your hair and your heart in your mouth and it feels like flying, like freedom. You open your mouth and yell as loud as you possibly can, maybe with terror, maybe with pure joy, most likely with both mixed up together.

  That night I went back to the cottage with cuts and bruises all over my arms and legs, and some spectacular scratches on my face from where I’d fallen off into a patch of brambles. Mum forbade me from riding again and put a padlock on the storeroom door, and after that I had to get my kicks from winding up teachers, playing practical jokes and burning down the school. Well, not quite, but you get the picture.

  The day of the great Christmas light switch-on is the closest I have ever been since then to that freewheeling feeling. I’m at the top of the hill and I know it’s going to be a bumpy ride, but still, there’s no turning back.

  The last two days have been crazy. There’ve been costume fittings, pep talks, last-minute tweaks to the playlist. Yesterday we had two rehearsals in one day, and there is still a storm cloud of resentment hovering around George that threatens to descend at any moment.

  ‘It’s band life,’ Bex tells me carelessly. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘What if I don’t?’ I ask. ‘What if I can’t do this?’

  ‘You can totally do it,’ she says. ‘Wait and see!’

  Marley and I go to tell Mr Simpson about the gig and ask if the band can take the afternoon off school. Typically he refuses. ‘You’re not exactly model pupils, are you?’ he grumbles. ‘Why should I give you time off?’

  Marley threatens to call his contact at Birmingham council, and Mr Simpson caves in, admitting that our headliner gig will reflect well on the school. We catch the train to Birmingham after lunch, with Pie in the cat basket. Jake’s stepdad, Sheddie, took our equipment over earlier, and it has already been unpacked by the festival crew.

  We’ve seen the Green Room, a Portakabin with bench seating, mirrors and a loo. It’s not posh, but the mirrors do have light bulbs all round them, like you see in the movies, and there’s a kettle and a seemingly endless supply of hot chocolate, cola, biscuits, fruit and sandwiches. Not that I can actually eat – I don’t have butterflies in my tummy so much as a herd of dancing elephants.

  I duck out of the Portakabin with Pie to look around. Pie is wary of the city noises and hides under my hair, digging his claws into my shoulder a little more firmly than usual. ‘Crak, crak, craaak,’ he squawks, stretching his wings and causing a minor stir with passers-by.

  I keep walking, partly to calm Pie down and partly because there is so much to see. A big festival-style stage takes pride of place in the centre of the shopping area, and men and women in hi-vis jackets move purposefully around the site doing last-minute jobs: checking safety barriers, taping down wires, testing amps and lights. Beyond the festival enclosure, stalls have appeared ready to sell hot food and drinks, and half a dozen TV vans are parked up with cameras and sound equipment being m
oved into place.

  Above it all hang intricate cobwebs of Christmas lights, strung high across the wide shopping street. Final touches and tweaks are being made by a technician in a hard hat working from a cherry picker, and a couple of tattooed guys are testing out a laser light show from their vantage point at the mixing desk. Jake has appointed himself as work experience, running errands and fetching coffees for them.

  Lee appears from a nearby shop doorway, swigging Coke and falling into step beside me. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘How’s Pie? Not freaking out?’

  ‘Not sure he likes it, but he’s OK,’ I say. ‘I hope he copes on stage … He loves rehearsals, but this is something different. For both of us. If Pie freaks, I’ll put him in his cat basket and Sasha can look after him backstage …’

  ‘What if you freak?’ Lee teases. ‘Do we have a cat basket for you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist, sounding more confident than I feel. ‘I’m really stoked to be here … I’ve worked hard, I know what I’m doing, and this is my chance to prove it!’

  Lee gives me the side-eye.

  ‘OK, OK, I’m terrified,’ I admit. ‘I didn’t sleep last night, running through all the things that could go wrong …’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like forgetting the words,’ I tell him. ‘Or singing out of tune. Or tripping over my own feet when I’m dancing, or getting tangled up in a trailing wire and electrocuting myself as I fall off the stage into the audience –’

  ‘Stop right there,’ he says. ‘None of that is going to happen. You know the songs inside out, you couldn’t sing out of tune if you tried, your dancing is super-cute and there are no trailing wires and nothing that can electrocute you. And if you fall off the stage, I’ll jump right after you and everyone will think it’s part of the show …’

  Pie hops across to Lee’s shoulder and he puts a hand up to hang on to his hat, laughing. ‘Just don’t think about the cameras and the film crews,’ he tells me with a grin. ‘Or Ked Wilder, or how Marley will strangle us if that elusive EP deal doesn’t happen. Think about those little girls from the Leaping Llama, and how much they love you. OK?’