My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (23 page)

Anna and I make universal pointing gestures at each other for a few seconds before we come to a silent agreement to hold this conversation outside. As we step out of the tepee, I am surprised to
see that the field is vastly muddier than it was a few hours ago. It’s pretty grim. I wish I had some wellies; my Converse are already on their last legs and I’m in danger of developing
trench foot.

‘It rained,’ I say stupidly.

‘Yeah, it was pretty gnarly out there last night. I stayed out to see Queens of the Stone Age, but it was pelting it down; everyone was soaking. Hang on, have you just been inside the
whole time? You were already asleep when I got in, but I thought you must have gone out and done
something.
Were you just in this fancy tent all evening?’

‘Yeah. Well, pretty much. It’s a tepee actually.’

‘How’s Jackson Griffith doing?’

I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that I don’t know, so I just shrug in what I hope seems like a casual, knowing fashion.

‘Well . . . Look, Chew, I’m going to go home. I don’t want to leave you here alone, so I really think you should come with me.’

‘What? Go home now? Why?’

‘Because I’m not having that much fun,’ she explains, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I can now say I’ve tried Glastonbury and it’s not for me. I don’t think
I’m the festival type. I’ve been to see some bands, and that was OK but I got rained on and couldn’t see that much – I’d rather have watched it on TV with a nice cup
of tea frankly. The VIP area is like some kind of grim prison with free alcohol – and I barely even drink! I just want to go home and have a hot bath and a good sleep in my own bed. This is
supposed to be fun, not an endurance test; I honestly think that half the people here have forgotten that and they just want to be able to say they were here.’

I want to argue with her, but I know it’s pointless. In fact, I really admire her for knowing her own mind and having the conviction to act on it. Seriously, for people of our age and
general type, admitting to not loving festivals is like saying you don’t like kittens or vintage dresses or something – it just isn’t the done thing.

But maybe Anna is more mature than I am, because I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not even willing to admit that I’m not having a brilliant time, even though I’m really
not.

‘So soon?’ I protest feebly.

‘Well, it took us about twenty times as long to get here as we thought it would – if I leave now, I reckon I might get lucky and make it home in time for
Antiques Roadshow
tomorrow night. That’s more my speed anyway . . . But seriously, Chew – it took us so long to get here, and everyone I spoke to last night said it’s crazy trying to get out of
here on a Sunday. I am a bit worried about getting back in time, to tell you the truth – so I thought I’d rather just hit the road than be worrying about it. I just want to get out of
here. And
I
don’t even have an exam on Monday.’

‘Thanks for thinking about me. Honestly. But I’m going to stay. I’ll be fine.’

Anna’s forehead screws up in concern, but it’s pretty obvious to both of us that our minds are definitely made up.

‘I really wish you would come with me,’ she says. ‘But I do understand. I’d probably stay for Jackson Griffith too – and I like girls. Just be careful, OK? I want
you to solemnly swear that you will take care of yourself. And just remember you’re awesome, OK? You truly are. I really think you need to keep that in mind right now.’

She passes over my bus and train tickets and refuses my offer to at least walk her to the front gates. We hug for a long, long time and I actually have to look away as I watch her disappear
among the tepees, for fear I might start crying.

I can’t just keep sitting in silence in that bloody deckchair. There are absolutely no signs of life from inside, so I decide it’s safe to bend Sadie Steinbeck’s strict rules
just for a bit, and stretch my legs in the muddy field. I’m certainly not going to the loo behind the tepee again.

Besides, the tepee field is the good bit of the VIP experience, and I want to enjoy it. I find a little stall with free coffee and pastries, which is my biggest coup yet – a billion times
more exciting to me than a free bar. Even the few people I pass in this field seem more friendly and chilled out than in the VIP bullring.

I am almost beside myself with delight when I discover that not only are there luxury lavatories, but also hot fire-powered showers and even a sauna. This is seriously amazing – this is
exactly what I thought the backstage experience should be.

I return to the tepee after longer than I meant to, but feeling like a new woman. I even stock up on some extra pastries on the way. My heart sinks when I see a load of commotion outside the
tepee. I bowl up in time to receive a withering glare from Sadie Steinbeck, who is surrounded by a whole crowd of people I mostly don’t recognize, and I find myself being bundled into the
back of a tiny van.

Jackson is pale grey under his usual golden suntan, shaking like he’s in need of an exorcist. Nobody in the van speaks, so I try my best to keep my mouth shut. He grabs my hand and
clutches it tightly, but doesn’t say a word.

We are deposited around the back of what I guess must be the Acoustic Field – the stage is a bit smaller than the main stages, but it’s much prettier around here. I hang about like a
bit of a spare part while equipment is sorted out and commands barked and the countdown to Jackson’s set begins in earnest.

Before he’s due to start, the stage is populated by a few fey little bands with dreamy retro vocals and a disproportionate number of fiddle players, fedoras, accordians and hippie
dresses.

Jackson’s going to blow them all away – he’s got to. I think of the video he sent me of him playing his new song –
my
song, as I like to think of it – and
I practically get goosebumps just at the memory.

Then again, the pressure is truly on. He’s so nervous he’s practically climbing the walls.

‘Good luck,’ is all I can think of to say. ‘You’ll be brilliant.’

He looks so scared; I just want to make everything OK for him. I wish there was something more I could do.

‘But last time I played here, I was terrible,’ he whispers. ‘What if . . . ?’

I grab him and hug him before he has finished his sentence – it’s all I can think of to do. And then it’s time. He is bundled away from me and into the wings of the stage
before either of us can say another word.

I feel so sick with nerves that I can’t even imagine how he must feel. I can only watch as he is ushered towards the stage and I hear him being announced. He seems so far away suddenly, on
his own.

But then something truly miraculous happens. His body language changes even as he walks out on to the stage – he becomes taller and wider in the shoulder before our eyes, losing the
hunched and fierce look. A grin slowly spreads across his face as he takes in the sea of faces and the roar of applause that hits him. He silently salutes the crowd before he hoists his guitar. We
all hold our breath.

The second he starts singing, I realize that none of us need ever have worried. Even the beauty of his voice on record has not prepared me for this. All the usual clichés about honey and
molten gold and melted chocolate spring to mind, but they don t even begin to do it justice. It’s not only that his voice is technically great, even though it is; it’s more that there
is something incredibly charming about its tone. He sounds friendly, even – or maybe especially – when he’s singing a sad song. There’s a bruised, vulnerable quality to it
that makes tears spring to my eyes.

He sounds perfect. This is what everybody here dreamed of hearing. This is a triumph. I’m so happy I am here to see it. Whatever happens now, the risk has been worth it.

He meanders through a few of his best-known songs before he addresses the audience or even pauses for breath.

‘My name’s Jackson Griffith. It’s good to be back, but I’m a little rusty,’ he says. ‘Thanks for coming out to see me today. And for humouring me.’

Then he steams through another batch of classics, with only his acoustic guitar to accompany him, and the entire audience is spellbound. When he starts a quiet, sad song – ‘I Told
You I Can’t Talk About It’ – it’s as if the whole of Glastonbury is quiet with him.

‘Sorry,’ he says sheepishly when the rapt crowd have barely recovered. ‘That was a bit of a downer. Now, I know it’s even more of a downer when you come out to see some
has-been like me and you hear the words nobody wants to hear: “This is a new song.” But you seem a nice bunch and I only want to do one . . . so stick with me, OK? This is a little song
I wrote about a swell girl named Tuesday.’

There in the wings, very quietly, I swear I nearly die. Here, today, it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever heard in my life.

So it is only when he has finished that it occurs to me that there are thousands of people here, including the world’s press. Highlights are going out on TV and radio, for goodness sake.
I’ve been identified to the world. I can’t help but wonder for the billionth time why my mum couldn’t have just made me a Katie or a Rebecca.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. I think I could do just one more, but I’d better quit while I’m ahead. Besides, I wanna hang out with my girl Tuesday. Thank you all – I
mean it. Have a good one. But not too good. Take it from me. See ya.’

I have only a second to panic, because then Jackson bounds off the stage and comes straight for me, a look of total triumph and delight on his perfect face. It’s all for me –
it’s like there’s nobody else there. We can’t stop grinning at each other like a couple of total idiots. Then he’s not grinning any more; he’s looking at me seriously
and holding my face in his hands and bending down towards me. I can hardly believe that it’s finally going to happen. And then it does.

Without any hesitation, he kisses me in front of everyone there. Our first kiss, and it’s so public – but I hardly even notice. It’s too lovely. Even here, and with his guitar
still slung around his neck and squashed up in between us, it’s the best kiss of my life. It feels like the only kiss that has ever mattered.

We are both a bit wobbly when we pull away, processing what has just happened and remembering where we are. We burst out laughing and kiss each other again. It’s so exciting but such a
relief, all at the same time. I’ve been waiting so long for this moment; it’s like now we’ve started, we can’t stop. We kiss until my head is spinning.

‘I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole ever since you got here,’ he says eventually. ‘I’ve been uptight and so nervous about this gig. Everything’s OK
now. I’m so happy you came.’

I kind of have to cling on to him so I don’t fall over. Amid all the people here, I have only one thought: to get out of here and on our own.

‘I’m starving,’ I say. ‘Do you still have work to do or can we go and get some food, maybe from
outside
the VIP prison?’

We both automatically look over to Sadie Steinbeck, as if for permission. Unexpectedly, she is smiling.

‘Well done, champ. You’re done, so I’m out of here – thank god. You can do whatever the hell you like. You’re officially the comeback kid. My work here is done.
Good luck with him, Tuesday.’

And, just like that, we are free. We scamper off like a couple of schoolkids. It takes us a while to make it out past the stage, as people keep recognizing and greeting Jackson, but everyone is
sweet and he doesn’t seem to mind in the least.

‘You must be Tuesday!’ a couple of people even say to me. ‘What an unusual name!’

We find a quiet corner of the Green Fields; I give him my (huge, ridiculous, sparkly) sunglasses to hide behind, while I buy us burgers and proper chip-van chips. The mud is drying out and
it’s turned into a beautiful afternoon.

We sit at the back and watch Cat Power as the sun goes down, and I swear this is the best moment of my life. All is right with the world. We listen to her sing my favourite song and Jackson has
his arm around me, and he kisses me in front of the whole of Glastonbury and it feels nothing but completely right.

We spend the entire evening strolling around the site and exploring everything that takes our fancy. There are interactive sculptures and there is crazy performance art and weird sideshows to be
discovered all over the place. We talk non-stop, and laugh at everything, and the whole night passes in a lovely, happy blur. Jackson’s previous mood is now a distant memory –
he’s having fun, and he’s everything I dreamed about since before I even met him. I never thought it would be possible to have such a relaxed good time with him.

We go to visit Mad Reggie and his friends at the fancy-dress stall. It occurs to me marginally too late that this might not be a great idea – but I’m having too much fun to
particularly care. Back home might as well be another universe by now.

‘Hey, Chew! How’s it going?’

When he hears that Mad Reggie looked after me on our first night here, Jackson is soon thanking him profusely for taking care of ‘his girl’. He starts trying to give Reggie all of
his cash, the rest of his chips and even the T-shirt he is wearing. We settle on buying an 80s David Bowie wig for Jackson as ‘disguise’, and Reggie waves us off dazedly.

‘Ground control to Major Tom!’ Jackson keeps saying in a terrible cod-English accent – the worst David Bowie impression I have ever heard.

‘You sound like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins!’ I tell him.

‘Oi! Chim chim cheroo. Didn’t they say in that movie that it’s good luck to kiss a chimney sweep . . . ?’

Running over to the fairground, I even manage to force Jackson into going on the Cage, something he has apparently never seen before.

‘Hey, if I puke, will the centrifugal force make it stick to the sides?’ he yells while we’re spinning at roughly a thousand miles an hour.

When we stagger back on to solid ground, he promptly falls over on the grass. Then he pulls me down with him and we’re laughing too hard to get up. It’s dark now and the fairground
lights are twinkling all around us. The world has never been more beautiful and it feels like it’s all ours.