Kitabı oku: «The Summer Festival Reading Collection: Revelry, Vanity, A Girl Called Summer, Party Nights, LA Nights, New York Nights, London Nights, Ibiza Nights», sayfa 7

Chapter 7

I’m dreaming that I’m being slowly roasted in a giant wood-fired oven, like an oversized version of the one in the Ibiza villa. Skinny Alison is taunting me with the fact that I don’t have a proper job, while all my friends laugh and chuck more logs on the fire. Somewhere in my peripheral vision, my father and Ben are having a threesome with Kimberly who is cackling maniacally and saying, ‘Don’t you just love a good roasting, Bella?’

I wake up with a jolt, pouring with sweat in the intolerable sauna-like conditions of my tent. I grab the Evian bottle nearest me and take a huge swig, only to gag and spit it out all over my sleeping bag. Vodka. Why oh why didn’t I label the bottles?

I find the real Evian bottle and pour it down my throat. God it’s good. I turn my rucksack inside out looking for my olive green string bikini, then lie down on my back to get into it. Crawling out onto the grass, pulling my sleeping bag behind me, I see I’m not the only one to have had this idea.

All around people are lying outside their tents, not quite ready to get up but unable to bear another second inside their synthetic hovels-from-home. The fresh air is gorgeous. The sun’s not really that hot yet, though it looks as though it’s going to be another scorcher. I lie down on my front and go straight back to sleep.

When I wake up again, several hours must have passed. People are sitting up and talking now, making breakfast on portable stoves or heading towards the loos for the morning freshen-up. I crawl back inside my tent for my ancient khaki combat-style mini and white vest top, grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and head up the hill towards the facilities. I am in remarkably high spirits considering, and realize I must still be pretty wired, which is all to the good as I don’t want to waste any time on hangovers here. If I can stave them off till I get back, so much the better. Though it will be a humdinger of a comedown.

The less said about the loos the better. I try to hold my breath for the duration, then queue up for the taps outside to clean my teeth. Back at the tent, I clean off yesterday’s make-up with wipes and brush my hair, trying to get some of the grease out with dry shampoo. My armpits are given a good going-over with more wipes. A squirt of deodorant and my toilette is complete. I am just getting out my make-up bag when Poppy emerges from the neighbouring tent, looking staggeringly fresh faced.

She is wearing a red and white striped towelling playsuit – a strapless, hot-pant jumpsuit with a slight blouson effect at the waist. The very short shorts show off her slender brown legs and her hair hangs just above her shoulders in silky blonde plaits. On anybody else this would look ridiculous, hideous or both, but Poppy manages to look incredibly cute, like a Swedish Seventies porn star, pre-shagging.

‘Morning gorgeous. How’re you feeling?’

‘A bit shaky, but nothing a couple of drinks won’t sort out. How ’bout you?’

‘Fine,’ she grins. ‘Long may it last.’

I take a mirror out of my make-up bag and start doing my face.

‘We should probably have some breakfast, or we’ll be feeling like shit later,’ says Poppy, producing some apples, wholemeal rolls and a wedge of cheddar from inside her tent. Damian often has to remind Poppy to eat breakfast – forcing bowls of muesli and homemade smoothies on her as she races out to meetings – but it’s somehow typical that she should remember now, for the purely practical purpose of fuelling our debauchery.

We finish our breakfast, perusing the programme of events and deciding who wants to see what when. It transpires that none of us is really bothered until 4 p.m., when Poppy wants to hit the dance tent, Damian wants to check out some up-and-coming indie band he’s thinking of putting in the mag, Mark is keen to watch the Mongolian deep-throat singers and I’m just happy to see where the mood takes me.

Which means we have three hours to kill.

‘In that case, it must be time for some mushroom tea,’ says Poppy.

‘Fuck yeah,’ says Mark. ‘Do the honours, babe.’

So Poppy sets up a portable stove in the clearing between our three tents and puts a pot of water on to boil.

‘How wholesomely Girl Guide,’ I say.

‘Always be prepared,’ she agrees gravely, tipping the contents of a brown paper bag into the pot.

Down the hill, we can hear excitement growing as the first band of the day prepares to play on the Pyramid Stage. Music has been blaring from the main speakers all morning in a comforting, yes I am at Glastonbury kind of way, but this is the real deal. A kerr-rash of drums, a huge roar from the crowd, and they’re off.

We grin at one another.

‘Vodka anyone, while we wait for our tea?’ I slosh the contents of my Evian bottle into a plastic cup and top it up with Diet Coke.

It’s a unanimous yes, so I pass the first cup to Poppy, then pour three more, balancing them precariously on the sloping grass.

‘Morning,’ says our neighbour, sticking his head out of the tent. ‘Beautiful day.’ He has sandy hair and a Scouse accent and we met him when we got back last night. I cannot for the life of me remember his name.

‘Apparently it’s going to stay like this,’ I say, thinking of the woman at the Tesco megastore. ‘Would you like some vodka?’

‘Now you’re talking.’ I pour another cup. He gets out of his tent and stretches fully, which isn’t very far, as he’s probably around my height. He looks around short-sightedly. ‘Where’d I put my glasses?’

‘Are these they?’ asks Poppy, holding up a horn-rimmed pair lying next to her tent.

‘Too right they are. What are they doing over there? Never mind, thanks,’ he says, good-naturedly. He has a lovely smile. I hand him his vodka.

‘Cheers, love. Cheers all,’ he says, nodding and smiling around.

‘Cheers,’ we chorus. ‘Happy Glastonbury,’ I add.

‘What have you got planned today, mate?’ asks Damian, who clearly can’t remember our neighbour’s name either.

‘My mates are arriving round four. Till then, nothing much. I want to see Primal Scream tonight though.’

‘Ooooh yes, me too,’ I squeak as my friends laugh. It’s a standing joke that after a certain level of drunkenness, Primal Scream will always get an airing at my parties. It reminds me of being a teenager, pre-art college, and I do like getting my rocks off after all.

‘Don’t get her started,’ says Poppy. ‘Could you pass me the cups, Belles? The tea’s boiling.’

‘Don’t say you’ve got shrooms!’ says the Scouser, his lovely smile lighting up his face. ‘You selling?’

Mark goes into some kind of elaborate transaction with him, bartering mushrooms and a bit of K for MDMA as far as I can tell. I let my thoughts drift to Ben for a moment. I wonder what he’s doing now. Then I remember he’s on the Abercrombie & Fitch shoot and put an abrupt halt to that train of thought. He’ll be here in a matter of hours, though, and after that, anything is possible. It’s a shame I won’t be looking my best by then, but that’s the nature of Glastonbury, and I’m certainly not going to sit waiting soberly in my tent for him. Ben’s seen me looking like shit many times before anyway, I think, remembering the Hogarthian gin hag photo. All the same, I make sure my make-up bag and hairbrush are in the mini-rucksack I’ll be carrying around with me today.

‘Earth to Bella!’ Poppy waves at me and hands me another plastic cup. ‘Careful, it’s hot.’

‘Thanks.’ I balance it on the grass next to my vodka and drag myself back to the present. ‘Can we go and see Max after this? I’m dying to see his yurt.’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Poppy takes a swig of her tea and grimaces. ‘Yuck, that’s foul.’ She washes it down with some vodka and Coke.

I pick up my phone and dial Max’s number. He answers on the first ring.

‘Hey Belle, how’s it going?’

‘Oh, it’s all wonderful! Last night I won at poker – I had FOUR ACES – how cool? We also reunited a lost little boy with his mother, quite the Good Samaritans. Now we’re having the first drink of the day and some mushroom tea. How ’bout you? How are the yurts?’ My words are toppling over themselves, such is my excitement.

‘Sounds like you’re having fun,’ Max laughs. ‘The yurts are pretty cool actually. There are some absolute knobs in here, of course, but my yurt itself is a definite improvement on our childhood tent, I have to say.’

‘Which in itself is a definite improvement on the tent I had last year,’ I laugh. ‘Are you going to be hanging around there long? It’s just that there’s nothing any of us really want to see till around four, so we thought the yurts were as good a place to start as any.’

‘And I can’t wait to see you either,’ says Max drily. ‘You flatter me, sis. Yeah, I’m having a lazy start – come on over. Should be here for at least an hour.’

‘Cool – see you soon,’ I say, and hang up.

Around forty-five minutes later we are ambling through the Green Fields, vaguely, we hope, in the direction of knobs in yurts. Rainbow-coloured peace flags flutter overhead, wind generators churn gently in the breeze and the tips of thousands of teepees fill the skyline.

‘Aren’t those yurts?’ asks Mark, pointing at them.

‘They’re teepees, fool,’ says Poppy. ‘Yurts are more squat. You know – circular wooden lattice frames, covered in felt made from yaks’ wool.’ Mark’s look of bemusement is suddenly highly amusing. The mushrooms are having the desired effect.

We amble some more, passing stalls offering all manner of mystical claptrap, from astrology to chakra diagnosis to crystal healing. A batik and ‘legal highs’ stall is playing ‘I Am the Walrus’, so we sit down on the grass next to it and sing at each other.

The song seems to go on for hours but nobody’s complaining as the lyrics are great and it’s comfortable on the grass here, the lovely sun warming us right to the depths of our souls, it seems. I am having A Moment. The music changes to ‘Here Comes the Sun’ and my pleasure levels shoot right off the barometer.

‘Beatle heaven man,’ says Dave, for that’s what our Scouse neighbour is called. ‘Let’s hear it for the ’Pool. I love you guys.’

‘We love you too, man,’ I grin back at him, any semblance of urban cynicism I might once have possessed having been swept away on a rush of hippy drugs, feel-good music and sunshine. Poppy tries to look superior but fails, relaxing with us into the deeply uncool but utterly blissful moment.

A man in top hat and tails with purple hair rides past on a unicycle. He looks about nine foot tall.

I wave up at him, singing along to George Harrison.

He waves back. ‘Look, no hands!’ and cycles round and round in circles in front of us. Damian looks at me, laughing.

‘Is this really happening?’ he asks.

‘Not quite sure,’ I respond. ‘Fun though, isn’t it?’

We hang out with the beardy batik people for a while, sampling their legal highs, which are, frankly, useless, so we give them some mushrooms instead. We’re enjoying a companionable joint – not saying much, just basking in the sunshine, marvelling at the brightness of the colours – when Mark says, ‘Weren’t we meant to be looking for a yurt?’

‘Oh bugger, Max,’ I say.

‘He’d have called if he was moving on somewhere,’ says Poppy. ‘Check your phone.’

I delve into my mini-rucksack, which has its own unique take on the infuriating handbag tardis tendency, to see a missed call and a text.

‘Bet you waylaid. Gone to get fags. See you at yurts at 3. Max,’ I read out.

‘You don’t happen to know where the yurt field is, do you?’ Poppy asks Beardy No. 1 with her most winning smile. He doesn’t know, but seems to have taken a shine to her, as he walks round the various neighbouring stalls asking. He returns with a map.

‘Look, not far at all. Just go to the other end of this field, turn right, then a sharp left and you’re there. Can’t miss it,’ he says, pointing it out to her.

‘That’s wonderful. Thank you so much.’

She jumps to her feet and the rest of us follow suit. Exchanging effusive goodbyes, we depart.

‘Is it me, or is that tree changing shape?’ I ask no one in particular, pointing at a stupendously lush old oak, whose trunk is gently pulsating. ‘Look, its leaves are dancing!’

‘Go on leaves, dance for the madwoman!’ says a laughing voice in my ear.

‘Max!’ I turn around and give him a big hug. ‘Isn’t everything just amazing?’

He laughs again. ‘Lovely to see you all.’ He’s wearing a faded yellow sleeveless T-shirt, raffia flip-flops and three-quarter-length cotton pants that he picked up in India. All standard-issue ethnic clothes are three-quarter-length on him. His golden curls stand on end around his sweet face.

‘This is Dave – he’s in the tent next to ours,’ says Damian, as I seem to be incapable of making introductions. Or, indeed, sense.

‘Nice to meet you, Dave,’ smiles Max, holding out his hand. ‘What do you make of this, then?’ He gestures around the field. Around fifteen yurts, just as Poppy described them, squat at regular intervals throughout the field. Each has a diameter of probably twenty feet. Delicious meaty smells are coming from a barbecue at the far end of the field and some worried-looking long-haired beasts are grazing in an enclosure nearby.

‘Are they yaks?’ asks Poppy, laughing.

‘’Fraid so. Gotta be authentic,’ laughs back Max. ‘Anyway, come and see my yurt.’

We follow him to the middle of the field. He opens the door with a flourish and we all pile in.

‘Bloody hell, Max,’ I say. ‘Your yurt is positively palatial.’ I then start giggling and repeating ‘positively palatial’ to myself until Max tells me to shut up.

‘Positively palatial’ may be an exaggeration, but it’s bloody comfortable for Glastonbury. A large futon with crisp white sheets, plumped-up pillows and a sheepskin (yak skin?) throw dominates the interior. There is coir matting underfoot and a couple of mushroom suede beanbags slouch underneath the window in the far wall.

‘Bedside tables, man. Cool,’ says Damian, gesturing towards a couple of low tables made out of some expensive dark wood, supporting opaque white glass lamps that vaguely resemble Barbara Hepworth sculptures.

‘I know, it’s great, isn’t it?’ says Max. ‘And the pièce de résistance … !’ He whips back a white linen curtain that has been set up at the other end of the yurt from the futon to reveal … a mini Smeg fridge.

‘Fuck me, they’ve given you a mini-bar,’ says Mark. ‘Cunting result.’

‘Cunting? Are you sure that’s a word?’ Poppy gives him a look.

Max bows and opens the door. ‘What can I get you all?’

‘Surely cocktails would befit the glamour of our surroundings,’ says Poppy. ‘Do you have ice and glasses?’

‘Of course.’ Max opens a cupboard hewn from the same expensive dark wood as the bedside tables. ‘There’s some sugar in here, too.’

‘And a big bunch of mint and some limes in the fridge,’ says Poppy. ‘Awesome – we can make mojitos. Though I’m baffled as to why anyone would think they’d fit with the yurt theme.’

‘Probably some ditzy PR getting Central Asia confused with Central America,’ says Damian, to all-round hilarity.

‘Talking of Central America,’ says Poppy. ‘It would be a travesty to let these lovely smooth surfaces go to waste.’

‘Here, use mine.’ Dave gets a wrap out of his pocket. ‘You lot have been well generous to me.’

‘Very noble of you, sir,’ says Damian, as Max goes to shut the yurt door.

After some rather hefty lines, Poppy and I set about making the cocktails with enormous enthusiasm.

‘A tad more sophisticated than last year, wouldn’t you say, Belle?’ she says, chopping mint like Marco Pierre White on speed.

‘Fuck yeah,’ I respond inelegantly, squeezing limes as I perform a little shimmy. ‘In fact, so far I’d say this is the best year ever!’

The cocktails prepared, we head out into the sunshine and sit down on the grass.

‘Well, thank you, Max, for providing such a civilized interlude,’ says Poppy, raising her glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Yes, thanks Max, cheers,’ we all chorus.

‘What’s the idea behind the yurts?’ Dave asks Max, who starts to laugh.

‘A new reality TV show where they shove a load of people with mental health problems into a great big yurt in Kazakhstan, and manipulate their neuroses for the delectation of the Great British Viewing Public.’

As we all crack up, Max shushes us and mouths, ‘No, really.’

We lounge in the sun with our cocktails, surrounded by people who look as if they should be on the roof terrace at Shoreditch House. After a bit, Poppy checks the time on her phone and yelps.

‘Cinderella time. Sorry to love you and leave you, but I really do want to see DJ Dawg who started his set at four. And I told some of my colleagues I’d see them there. It’s quarter past already.’

So Poppy goes in search of the dance tents, Damian his next-big-thing indie band and Mark his Mongolian deep-throat singers. We all agree to meet at the Pyramid Stage for Primal Scream at 10.30, but to stay in mobile touch for any pre-Primal hitherto-unforeseen excitement, phone-coverage-dependent, of course.

‘Great as it is amongst the yurts, Max,’ I say, ‘I feel the urge to get down with the people a bit more – do you know what I mean? A bit of the old group-hug mentality that you get in the fields around the main stages?’

‘I certainly do. Come on, let’s go. What are your plans?’ he asks Dave, who is checking his phone.

‘Just got a text from my mates. They’re stuck in traffic and probably won’t be here for at least another couple of hours. They say it’s dead grim.’

‘Yeah, it would be,’ says Max, and I think of Ben. Bugger. ‘Hang out with us some more, why don’t you?’ he adds, and Dave’s face lights up with his lovely smile again.

It’s baking hot now, as we make our way, with thousands of others, towards the main stages. All around us people are disrobing. As my initial mushroom madness has given way to light euphoria and a certain lack of inhibition, I take off my vest top (I am wearing a bikini underneath) and use it wipe my sweaty brow.

‘That’s attractive,’ says Max, removing his own T-shirt to do the same. I notice Dave gawking at my brother’s impressive chest, and for the first time it occurs to me that he might be gay too. Excellent, I think, matchmaking plans already formulating in my befuddled brain. I’ve grown rather fond of Dave in the few hours we’ve known him, and Max could certainly do with some success in his love life.

We stop at a beer tent for some plastic pints of Stella. The queues are so long, we get two each, even though they’ll warm up in no time. After weighing up the options, we all agree we’d rather face warm beer than more time standing in line. We find a space looking down at the Pyramid Stage, far enough away from it to be able to sit down on the litter-strewn grass without being trampled. Then, suddenly and wonderfully:

‘Bella? Max? Is that you?’

I look around. ‘Ben! But how did you get here so quickly? What about the traffic?’ I ask, all a-fluster.

‘It was a stroke of luck actually,’ he says, smiling that devastating smile of his. ‘Susie, the director, offered me a lift in her helicopter. She’s covering the festival for some US TV channel, so they had to get her here quickly. We landed at Babington House.’

‘That’s pretty cool,’ says Max, getting up and shaking Ben’s hand. ‘Good to see you, mate.’

‘Isn’t it funny how easy it is to bump into people here, considering how huge it is?’ I stammer, entirely unprepared for seeing him so soon. ‘Though it wasn’t that easy for Kestrel’s mum to find him last night, poor woman. God, she must have been out of her mind with fear …’ I am babbling with idiotic nerves.

‘What on earth are you on about?’ Ben laughs, not actually wanting a response. He is looking predictably gorgeous in slightly baggy faded jeans that hang off his narrow hips, though a battered brown leather belt stops them sliding halfway down his bum – the US jailbird look that has been taken up by teenage boys in Surrey. His almost obscenely perfect V-shaped torso is bare and brown, and last year’s cowboy hat protects his beautiful face from the sun.

‘Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?’ he continues, and I get to my feet, intending to give him a peck on the cheek, but he puts his hands round my exposed waist and pulls me closer, landing me a smacker right on my lips. My skin burns under his touch.

‘You’re looking great,’ he says. ‘Green suits you.’

Behind him, Max raises his eyebrows at me and grins.

‘So how was the helicopter ride?’ I ask, trying to ignore my galloping heart and racing libido. ‘That’s so glamorous!’

‘It was fun. Fantastic views over Stonehenge and it certainly beat being stuck in traffic for hours. Had a bit of trouble fending Susie off, though.’

‘I can imagine, dressed like that,’ says Max wryly, apparently forgetting that he is wearing even less than Ben is. ‘Would you like a beer?’

‘No offence mate, but I’d rather have a cold one,’ laughs Ben. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ And he saunters down the hill, oblivious (or perhaps not) to female heads swivelling as he passes.

‘Bloody hell. He. Is. Fit,’ says Dave, confirming my earlier suspicions. He’s been silent for the whole encounter.

‘That’s an understatement and a half,’ laughs Max. ‘So what’s going on with you two, Bella? He was very touchy-feely.’

‘He was, wasn’t he? Thank God I’m not imagining it.’ And I find myself telling them about the kiss the night after I left Max and the others at Osteria Basilico.

‘Hmmm,’ says Max thoughtfully, once I’ve finished. ‘Well, I can see why you’re tempted – hell, who wouldn’t be? – but I don’t want you to get hurt. Be careful, sis.’ His big brown eyes are serious.

‘Why would I get hurt? We’ve been friends for ages, and now he seems to be noticing me as a woman –’ both Max and Dave wince at this – ‘too.’

‘It’s just that blokes like him who could have anyone aren’t the easiest people to go out with. And look at you, Belles, you’re head over heels already. Anybody can see that.’

‘Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit?’ I say hotly, but now both boys are shushing me, as Ben is returning with his beer. As ever it’s taken him a fraction of the time of anyone else to get served.

Ben sits down between me and Max and leans back on his elbows, his long, denim-clad thigh brushing mine. I feel as if I’m in the most wonderful dream and I never want to wake up. The sunshine, the atmosphere, the music, the chemical euphoria and now this? Bloody hell.

‘So what have I missed?’ asks Ben, once we’ve introduced him to Dave and explained where the others are. ‘Such a bore, having to do that shoot this morning.’ Sometimes he talks as though he were in a Noël Coward play, a RADA affectation that I might just find a teensy bit pretentious in a lesser man, despite my continuing affection for the 1920s and 30s.

I start telling him about my poker win and little Kes, when suddenly I remember. ‘Oh shit. We couldn’t put your tent up. By the time we got to the field there was literally just enough room for our three tents. Sorry.’

Ben smiles and directs his startlingly blue, long-lashed gaze at me. ‘Never mind, darling. I’m sure we’ll make do somehow.’ Am I imagining it, or is the pressure from his leg increasing? Max looks over at us sharply and changes the subject.

‘Have I told you the latest about Andy and Alison’s wedding?’

‘God, what a bitch,’ says Ben. ‘What does he see in her? I mean, he’s a bit dull but he’s not a bad bloke.’

‘He’s not dull,’ says Max irritably. ‘He’s highly intelligent and extremely principled. He was great fun at Cambridge.’

‘OK, sorry,’ says Ben, smiling and putting his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I forgot he was a good friend of yours. I’ve probably been listening to Damian too much.’

‘Damian has a severe case of professional jealousy,’ says Max. ‘Anyway, apology accepted.’ He smiles back. It’s impossible to be cross with Ben for long. ‘Back to your original question. Well, Alison is also highly intelligent and she claims to be extremely principled. Which is difficult to believe, given her chosen profession.’

‘She’s a lawyer,’ I say to Dave, who gives a gratifying guffaw.

‘She was something of a star at Cambridge,’ continues Max. ‘Head of the Law Society, double firsts right the way through, you name it … She was considered a real catch. And she didn’t seem nearly so hard in those days. But yes, now I do feel sorry for Andy. Henpecked is not the word.’

‘So what’s going on with their wedding?’ asks Ben, with his endearingly camp thirst for gossip.

‘Well, so far the original florist, photographer and band have all backed out because they refuse to work with her. It’s taking all of Andy’s powers of negotiation to keep their chosen venue, and the vicar has taken to drink.’

‘Noooo … !’ I gasp, gleefully.

‘Yes, really,’ Max laughs. ‘I’ve been to the venue three times to check things out for the catering. It’s Hambledon Hall, Bella,’ he adds, naming a beautiful seventeenth-century manor house in the next village to where our mother lives in Oxfordshire.

‘Oooh nice.’

‘Yes, very. Anyway, every time I’ve been to the village pub for lunch, the vicar’s been in there, knocking back the Scotch and complaining about the lawyer woman from London who’s making his life a misery.’

‘Wow, she sounds scary,’ says Dave.

‘I chucked a glass of red wine over her last time we met,’ I boast, to a chorus of ‘Respect!’ and high-fives. Yes, this is fun.

‘Oh, and you should see what she’s trying to make poor Alison wear.’