My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (25 page)

‘Get yourself a drink, babe. I’d recommend a Bloody Mary, after the night that we had. That’ll fix you up; it worked on me.’

‘Good idea,’ I agree in a small voice.

I go and get myself a tomato juice and sit down next to Jackson.

‘Jackson,’ I whisper to him, trying not to draw attention to myself, ‘do you know what time it is?’

‘No idea, sweetheart,’ he mutters with literally zero concern. ‘Hey, Si – I wanted to talk to you about that Thunderbird bass I saw you with yesterday, man . .
.’

I feel mildly ashamed of myself for every minute that I just sit there quietly, not saying anything – but I can’t bring myself to break the spell by speaking up.

Eventually, when I’ve been sitting still for so long that my bum has gone completely numb and I have to either get myself another drink or do
something
, I stand up and ask if I
can get anyone anything from the bar. They all smile at me like I’m really awesome.

‘You might just be the holy grail of girls,’ Jackson comments.

I smile vaguely, thinking that this is quite reductive and probably bordering on offensive – I think Jackson’s just kind of wasted and feeling lazy; at least I hope he doesn’t
really want a girlfriend who stays quiet and brings him drinks. For the very first time, I wonder properly about his French model ex-wife. All I’ve ever thought before is that she quite
possibly needs to have her head examined – how could you possibly let go of such a sweet, handsome, clever man, whatever the circumstances? But then again now, also for the first time,
Jackson is resembling the mythical creature that I’ve read about in the tabloids.

‘That’s a lot of pressure,’ is all I say out loud.

‘OK, we’ll downgrade you if it makes you feel better,’ he suggests. ‘We’ll call you the Turin shroud of girls. No pressure.’

I don’t quite know what to make of that, so I go to the bar with my list of everyone’s drinks .

‘Excuse me,’ I ask the man behind the bar. ‘You don’t know what time it is, do you?’

‘Yep, it’s coming up for half past one.’

This is much, much worse than I feared. I’m a dick. A total, total dick. I have always known that, but I have never before been so acutely aware of it as in this exact second.

Conversely, a cheer goes up as I come back with the swaying tray of drinks. As I dole them out, I try to talk quietly to Jackson out of the corner of my mouth.

‘Jackson, do you remember last night you said we could go back to London together this morning?’

‘Not really.’ He shrugs.

‘Well, I’ve really got to get back. I’ve missed my bus and I absolutely have to be home by seven this evening.’

‘Seven? That’s hours and hours away.’

‘Well, it’s a long way and it took us ages on the way here . . .’

‘Seriously, man – calm down. It’ll work itself out. These things always do. Trust me.’

I wish I could. I take a deep breath. If Jackson really cares about me, and I think he does, then I don’t have to do everything he says. I know I can’t get carried away by this, but
it suddenly seems like a very big leap of faith. The perfection of last night seems like a very long time ago – this morning everything is different. I’m silently willing him to go back
to his amiable, easy-going – and sober – self that he was last night, but it’s not working.

‘Look, Jackson,’ I say, loudly and decisively, ‘I have to go. I’ve got to be back in time. I’m going to leave now and see if I can get a bus.’

Simon and Robin from Bucket Tree make polite, token groaning noises.

‘Tuesday, you can’t go,’ Jackson states. ‘You can’t. Not after . . . everything.’

He’s so shocked and panicky, it’s as if he didn’t hear a word of what I said before.

‘Jackson, seriously. I have to.’ I don’t want to get into the whole saga in front of half of Bucket Tree – I’m aware that I sound like a tragic child. ‘You
know my mum gets back this evening, and I have a really important exam tomorrow. I absolutely have to go home.’

‘We can go together – later or tomorrow, or whatever. You said you’d stay here with me. You
said
.’

His eyes are opaque. He practically stamps his foot. I’m suddenly very conscious of having an audience. Jackson doesn’t seem to care.

‘Do you want to come with me back to the tepee?’ I suggest. ‘Maybe we can have a chat there.’

‘If this is how it’s gonna be, then you can forget it –
sweetheart
. Man, this is why I said I’d never get married again . . . I end up in some fake Elvis
wedding, and next thing I know you’re acting like my damn wife. You can forget that. I’m staying right here. Someone bring me another drink.’

‘Well, I’m off then.’ I might be dying inside, but I feel more than ever that it is morally vital to stand my ground. ‘See ya.’

I force myself to walk away. Otherwise I know I never will.

At first I’m absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent convinced that he is going to come after me. With every step it becomes harder not to turn round and check out what’s going on.

By the time I make it back to the tepee field, it is very obvious that he is not coming after me at all. I gather up my things and force myself to get on with it and
not
cry. I try my
best to channel the spirit of Nishi and make myself get angry instead.

It doesn’t really work but I do manage not to crumple in a heap. Rucksack on, I traipse across the site, out of the VIP zone and to the market field.

I find the fancy-dress stall sadly depleted. There are hardly any costumes left, and the ones that are seem to be completely ruined by mud, rain and things that I probably don’t even want
to know about. The structure has been dismantled back down to its metal bones. Only Joules is left, flogging the remains. His penguin suit has seen better days – crucially, it is missing the
entire left arm/flipper.

‘You’re looking for Mad Reggie?’ he says. ‘Sorry, love – he and the boys headed off early this morning in the van. Reggie’s still at sixth-form college, you
see, believe it or not. He said something about having to head back early because he has some big exam tomorrow.’

As if I could feel any worse. It’s official: Mad Reggie cares about college more than I do. He is safely on his way home while I have completely screwed up my entire life as I know it.
Probably he’ll get my A grade in English, while I will be condemned to doing retakes and hanging around college forever. I might even grow dreadlocks and develop a low-level weed habit.
‘Mad Chewie’ – that’s what they’ll call me.

All because I backed the wrong horse. What made me think that I knew so much better than everybody else? I suddenly feel incredibly stupid.

I’m in a daze as I head out against the crowds, towards the exit. Being here has been such a bonkers experience. I wish I could commit all these amazing sights to memory one last time
– but I’m too upset to be able to take any of it in. I keep hoping he’ll find me. All the way back through the gates and to the car park where it all started.

On flashing my ticket and hoping for the best, I am informed that my bus has already left.

‘The next bus to London isn’t for, ooh, over two hours now – and you’d have to buy a new ticket,’ the bus man adds.

It’s then I realize that I don’t have any money for a new ticket. I don’t even have to force it; I start sobbing, right there at the bus stop.

‘I’m sorry,’ I snivel. ‘I’m not doing this on purpose. It’s just that my friends have left me and my boyfriend and I had a fight, and I really have to get
home. I’m going to be in so much trouble.’

There is a pause and the man literally rolls his eyes at me. I guess working at a festival he must see this kind of thing a lot. But I doubt many people can have been as desperate as I am right
now.

‘Well,’ he sighs eventually, ‘you
do
have a ticket, so I suppose I could swap it. Of course you’ll still have to wait for the next bus though.’

Even if everything goes according to plan once this next bus turns up, I’ll be cutting it fine. I might just make it. I’m going to have to sit here helplessly worrying about it for
the next two hours, but I am not going to go back into the festival. There’s no point.

I sit down on a patch of grass at the edge of the car park and remember that I’ve still got most of a bag of mini Snickers bars at the bottom of my rucksack. They are warm and squashed,
but I eat the lot, at least eight of them in a row. They make me feel heavily sick. I’m glad I won’t starve to death here, but I’d rather have a working phone.

Without it, or a watch, I keep having to ask the man what time it is and when the bus is coming. By the time the bus eventually turns up – seven minutes late, which has me completely
wigging out – we kind of hate each other and I get the impression he wishes he had screwed me over on the technically timed-out ticket.

I’ve never seen someone so glad to see the back of me, except maybe Jackson – who knows? Thankfully there aren’t many losers like me who are leaving before the Sunday
headliners, so the bus isn’t crowded. I have a double seat to myself – and I’m relieved not to have to talk to anyone. I just want to get home as quickly as humanly possible.

Once we start moving, it’s so interminably slow that I start to worry I’m literally going to drive myself mental. I can’t even sit still – as if my own kinetic energy and
force of will can somehow power the bus more quickly along the motorway. It’s hours before we’ll arrive in London and I have absolutely nothing to distract me in the meantime. I wish
more than anything, for the zillionth time, that my phone was working. I am such an idiot.

I try my best to spread out across the seats, my rucksack under my head. It’s uncomfortable but it’s better than nothing. I close my eyes just to avoid having to keep staring at the
same slow-moving scenery. Even though I’m bone tired, I’m sure I won’t be able to go to sleep. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute . . .

At first I think maybe we’re there. I wake up with a start and realize that we have come to a standstill. My heart begins to sink. The driver is standing up to say something to us, which
can’t be a great sign.

‘We’re having a few, ah, technical problems,’ he announces awkwardly. ‘It appears the engine has overheated. I’ve called for assistance, so I’m afraid
we’re just going to have to wait.’

His words slice into me like tiny knives and I have to hold in an audible sob. I am shaking all over.

It’s official. It’s over. Any chance of making it back before my mum is now officially out the window. Even though there is still some time to go, I am stuck and all I can do is sit
here helplessly and wait for this ticking time bomb that is my life to explode all over me. I have a feeling the mess is going to be beyond horrible.

Of course, worst of all is the certain knowledge that this disaster is solely and entirely of my own making and I deserve every scrap of what is coming to me.

By the time the bus gets moving again – which takes, quite literally, hours – I’ve given up all hope. I’m past caring. There’s nothing I can do now. I can’t
even cry any more. I just feel tired and heavy and so, so sad.

There’s no point even trying to find out what time it is. It’s late. It’s too late. It’s been dark a long time by the time we get to London.

At Victoria station, I instantly register that it’s a lot quieter – worryingly quieter – than when I was last here. The departure boards are almost blank. Of course –
it’s Sunday night, and it’s even later than I thought. I head to the Tube entrance to find it gated up, and this time I really do want to cry. I thought my despair levels had reached
maximum capacity but it turns out that’s not quite true. To stop myself from bursting into self-pitying public tears, I kick the metal gate instead. Which obviously doesn’t help.

Even if I could get to Paddington tonight, the last train has already gone without me. My mum will be home and wondering where I am, probably freaking out to an unprecedented degree. I would be,
if I was her.

There is not only my mum to think about now – obviously I’m going to be in trouble, but it’s not only that by this point. My whole future is at stake. All day, I’ve been
worrying about getting home before my mum, but the most important thing is that I have my final English paper tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Now it’s starting to look like even that is
in danger.

I’d call my mum and confess all, if only I could. That’s how frightened I am. She could come and pick me up and I would at least get home tonight – I could deal with everything
else later. But I don’t have a working phone and I have no money; I’m like one of those pathetic modern kids that people talk about, who live their whole lives through the Internet and
have no idea how to survive in the real world.

There’s nothing I can do. I’m going to have to hang out in Victoria station until the morning. It’s chilly at this time of night, but at least it’s undercover. I wrap
myself in my parka and sit on a cold metal chair, preparing for the longest night of my life.

‘Excuse me, miss?’ a man in a uniform says eventually. ‘You can’t stay here. You need to go.’

‘Sorry – what?’

‘The station is locked at one o’clock – it will be opened again in the morning.’

‘But . . .’ I have never felt so desperate in my whole life, but at least this is the opportunity for some sort of human contact. ‘Do you possibly just have a phone I can use,
please? This is seriously an emergency.’

He shakes his head and ushers me outside. There are a few people sitting or sleeping against the walls of the station, but I don’t feel safe here by myself. Let alone as if I can ask any
of them if they have a phone I could quickly use. Besides, I can’t sit still all night – I will go out of my mind.

I have no idea where I am going, but it’s better to keep moving. I vaguely consult a map outside the station (there’s a reason I dropped geography straight after GCSEs) and stride
off in the general direction of Paddington. I think.

But even the getting-lost bits don’t matter, because it’s hours until the next train anyway. On the plus side, when I make it there, I discover that Paddington stays open at night,
unlike stupid Victoria. Even though nothing useful is open, at least it’s quite warm. The wait for my first train of the morning would probably not be that unpleasant if it didn’t feel
like awaiting my execution. If this were not the worst night of my entire life.