Saved by the Celebutante (21 page)

I get back to the van and climb inside to tidy up. I reach over to my cooler and pull out a granola bar. It’s not enough to satiate my hunger, so I make up some peanut butter and jelly with the bread I bought yesterday and chow down on that too.  I would kill for a coffee, but I don’t have any. That will have to be my first stop this morning.

I’m back on the road by seven. My GPS still says there’s six and a half hours to go. I grab my caffeine fix from a little place on the edge of the highway near a town called Yerington and then only stop for bathroom breaks after that. Despite Gia urging me to relax, I find I’m unable to. I can’t stop brooding about Corey and I have nothing but low lying scrub and desert to distract me.

Just before two, I finally reach the stretch of road leading into the festival grounds. The queue of vehicles in front of me is a good distraction from my grumpy mood. There are several old yellow school buses, quite a few Winnebagos, a lot of station-wagons and hundreds of vans. A good percentage of them are decked out even more outrageously than mine.

Despite the fact I’m only here to track down Peter Carson, a tiny sliver of excitement shoots into my stomach. I imagine this is how people would have felt when they went to Woodstock.

I wait in line, crawling along at a snail’s pace down the dirt road leading to what looks like the middle of nowhere.

An hour later, I finally reach the entry gate. A man wearing an Uncle Sam hat approaches my van. “Good afternoon. May I please see your ticket?”

“Oh, I’d just like to buy whatever I need to stay until tomorrow, please.”

He gives me a disbelieving look. “Excuse me?”

“Like a one-day pass? I guess two days if it ticks over at midnight?”

“Honey, there ain’t nothing like that here at Earth & Fire. It’s all or nothing.”

“How much is a full pass then?” I mentally kiss my next few weeks’ worth of wages goodbye.

“Eight hundred dollars. But even if you could afford that, the event is sold out. We don’t have any tickets left to offer.”

My heart sinks. “Not even if it’s a matter of life or death that I speak to someone inside?”

“Sorry, not even then. Although, if it really is a matter of life or death, you can phone 911 and get patched through to someone via the festival police. But I suspect your version of life or death is slightly different to mine.”

“A woman’s career depends on it!” I cry, praying he’ll make an exception.

He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid that’s not going to cut it. I really am sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to move out of the way and let some other people through.”

I sigh deeply and reverse the van so I can turn around. I drive partway back up the dirt road and pull over out of the way of the traffic.

What on earth am I going to do now? And why wasn’t I prepared for this scenario? In all the excitement of borrowing Paulie’s van and everything else going on, Gia and I somehow forgot to check whether the event was sold out. I guess I naively assumed that because it was in the desert, they would let in anyone who wanted to go. Especially if they drove all the way out here and were being self-sufficient.

I pour myself a glass of water and then swing open the side door to sit on the step, watching the other vehicles drive past. Surely they must have spare tickets for last minute celebrities or something. Why can’t I have one of those? It’s like when you go to a sold-out rock concert and there’s a big allocation of empty seats right up the front and you wonder why they can’t upgrade some of the fans in the back row. They do it on flights. Why not at concerts and festivals?

I sip my water and brood. I can’t even call anyone, because my phone doesn’t have any reception.

I sit there for half an hour, plotting different ways to sneak in. Turning back is not an option. I inspect the plains around the ticket gate, but I don’t think my van would be capable of driving down the bank on either side of the road. I guess I’ll just have to wait until it gets dark and go in on foot.

Just as I’m contemplating driving back to wherever I can find the nearest phone reception, I hear my name being called. At first I think I must be imagining things, because the odds of someone I know being out here are practically non-existent. But then I glance over and see Oli waving at me madly from a pick-up truck towing a camper. The vintage one I saw this morning.

I jump up and run towards his truck.

“Hey!”

“What happened?” he asks. “You change your mind about going in?”

“They don’t have day passes, and they’re sold out of the regular ones,” I explain.

“Bummer. But seriously, did you not research that beforehand?”

“Apparently not.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Probably sneak in after the sun goes down?”

“But that’s at least a few hours away. Are you just going to sit out here until then?”

“What other choice do I have?”

He holds up a finger and then turns to the person beside him in the driver’s seat. He whispers something, but I can’t see who he’s talking to because of the angle.

“No,” I hear a voice say.

“Come on, Matt. She only needs to go in for a couple of hours. No one will notice.”

“We could get kicked out ourselves.”

“So? What would you care? Then you’d have an excuse to go home early. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“Cool.” He turns back to me. “It’s settled. You’re coming in with us.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“You won’t. Why don’t you grab whatever you need for the rest of the day and put it in the camper? You can hide under the covers in the bed.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

“Because that’s the spirit of this festival. I mean, obviously not sneaking people in, but helping them out.”

“Thank you. That’s very sweet.”

I quickly run back to the van and pull out my suitcase, my cooler and my water container. I don’t have time to sort through everything, so I figure I’ll just take it all. There’s a chance I might get hungry before Oli can drive me back, and I like to be prepared in case the outfit I’m wearing gets dirty or damaged. I went to Thailand a few years ago during the Songkran water festival, and I wish I’d taken a spare pair of clothes out with me
that
day.

Oli unlatches the door to the camper and I climb into the dark interior.

He grins. “See you on the other side.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The camper is amazing from what I can make out in the dim light. It reminds me of a Russian circus, with a plush patterned rug on the floor, embroidered covers on the seats and ruffled velvet curtains at the windows. There are squashy cushions thrown all over the bed in the back, and a couple of multi-colored lanterns hanging from the timber ceiling.

I dump my suitcase, cooler and water under the dining table and then climb under the blanket on the bed, lying as flat as possible behind the cushions. It feels kind of strange crawling into a stranger’s bed, especially knowing it slept two brothers the night before. The air under here smells like cologne and bodies, but it’s not at all unpleasant.

We inch forward a little, and I almost giggle at the absurdity of the situation. I wonder what would happen if I was sprung. Would they arrest me? Drive me far away and leave me in the middle of nowhere? Fingers crossed I never find out.

Eventually we stop, and I hear the Uncle Sam guy ask for Oli and Matt’s tickets.

“Just the two of you?” he asks.

“Yep.”

I hear the crunching of gravel and feet walking around outside. “Do you mind if I take a quick look in your camper?” he asks.

“Sure. You’ll have to excuse the mess, though.” Oli opens the pick-up truck door and jumps out. I then hear the camper door opening. I hold my breath. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.

The guard doesn’t enter the van, so I assume he’s just doing a cursory inspection to satisfy himself that it isn’t packed with a dozen hitchhikers.

Nope. Just the one.

“Nice setup you got there. Go on through.”

“Thanks!” Oli says cheerfully.

We drive on a bit further and finally lurch to a stop a few minutes later. Oli opens the door to the camper and steps in.

“You can come out now,” he calls.

I throw off the blanket and stand up. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. So originally you said you were going to stay tonight. Is that still the plan?”

“I don’t know. I guess not. I should probably just find the guy I’m looking for and then leave. I’m not sure how comfortable I would feel sleeping out there on the side of the road.”

“Well, you decide. I can drive you back to your van before dark, or you could stay up all night and party. That way you won’t need a bed.”

“Ha. The party option is very tempting. I’ll see how I go.”

“Well, make your decision soon, okay? I want to start drinking!”

I’m tempted to point out that he’s too young to drink, but he’s just done me a huge favor, so I hold my tongue. “Oh. Of course. If you don’t mind, I’ll just leave my stuff here and go hunt down the guy I’m looking for.”

“Sure. But don’t be surprised if any of your food is gone by the time you return.”

“Help yourself,” I say, waving a hand towards the cooler. “It’s the least I can do.”

We have to do a slightly awkward side step to get past each other in the narrow space. Oli smirks as our shoulders brush.

“See you soon!”

It takes a minute for my sight to adjust to the brightness, but when it does, I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole in
Alice in Wonderland
. My van would have fit right in – literally. This place is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

We’re in a campsite that appears to be set up in a circular pattern, with a large nude female sculpture in the middle. A path wraps around the sculpture and other small paths cut through at varying intervals to the outside of the site. I imagine it looks like a spider web-shaped crop circle from above.

I want to thank Oli’s brother for helping to sneak me in too, but there’s a sea of people surrounding us and I don’t know who he is. I figure I’ll get Oli to point him out when I return.

Many of the festival goers are already in full exhibition mode, dressed in a variety of costumes that would put even the most elaborate of Halloween parties to shame. A couple of people lope past with stilts on their feet
and
hands. They’re wearing gas masks and stripy outfits and look like insects.

The dust in the air casts a yellowish haze over everything, which means I can only see about twenty feet in front of me. I take out my phone to snap a photo of the camper and surrounding areas so I can find my way back later – sort of like a digital breadcrumb trail.

I pull the neck of my jacket up to cover my mouth and nose and set out to explore.

Outside our site, there are many others, giving the impression of individual villages. Everyone is busy constructing their accommodation. I pass an Australian themed bush shack, a Moroccan style harem (complete with floaty pieces of fabric and embroidered rugs), and a Japanese Zen garden. The air is charged with a celebratory energy, but also a tinge of danger – like we’re living on the edge of humanity’s boundaries. A man and woman walk past with only strategically placed leaves to cover their modesty.

I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed that I won’t be staying the night, but for now, I just need to focus on finding Peter. That’s all that matters.

It’s not as straightforward as I thought it would be, though. You would assume that a movie director’s trailer would stand out in the middle of the desert, except it turns out there are dozens of vehicles which could easily fit the description.

I walk around the outside of the grounds once and then start to work my way through each site, surreptitiously peeking into any bus or van that might house a director. He must be hiding, or I’m just looking in the wrong place. I’m going to have to be a bit more methodical with my approach.

If only there was some kind of information center I could get a map from. Would that kind of thing even exist here? And where would they set up?

I’m walking aimlessly through the middle of one of the sites when a young woman calls out to me. She has ice blue eyes and a pile of dreadlocks bundled elaborately on top of her head.

“You look like you could use a massage.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money with me,” I reply without thinking.

She chuckles. “Honey, have you forgotten where you are? It’s Earth & Fire! We don’t have money here!”

“Oh, right. Well, um, I probably shouldn’t. I didn’t really come prepared with anything to exchange just now. I’m kind of looking for someone.”

“I take it this is your first time here?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“A little. Come in and we’ll sort you out. It’s not about give and take in the literal sense. I might offer you a massage now and then you’ll offer your product or skill to someone else later.”

I cautiously enter the woman’s tent, which is actually a yurt with bright canvas mats on the ground. Beanbags are set out around the edges and there’s a massage table in the middle. Everything smells of sandalwood incense.

The girl grabs my hand and pulls me over to the table.

“Lie down. We’ll talk while you relax.”

“Are you sure?” I feel like I shouldn’t be taking advantage when I have no intention of repaying the favor to someone else. I mean, I would if I was staying, but I don’t really have time.

“Yes. Now get.”

I take off my jacket. “Uh, what do you want me to do?”

“If you’re comfortable, you can take off your shirt. The massage will be more effective that way, but I can work around it if you don’t want to.”

“No, no. That’s fine.”

She hands me a towel. “Take your time.”

I half-wrap the towel around my chest and awkwardly remove my shirt and bra, tossing them on the ground beside me. I then climb up onto the massage table and lie down with my face through the hole.

“Ready!” I call.

“Perfect.” She comes back over and pours some oil onto my back before expertly pressing her fingers into the knots in my shoulders. Ooh. She’s good. I really needed this.

“What’s your name, hon?”

“Chrissie. And you?”

“Arcadia.”

“How many times have you been to Earth & Fire?”

“This is my fifth time. I wish I could stay here all year long. Our normal society is so fucked up. Too many obligations and expectations. Here you can be whoever you want to be and do whatever you want to do and no one judges.”

“That does seem nice. So you’re obviously not worried about the lack of rules?”

“Not at all. I find it incredibly freeing. Like anything could happen.”

“What if someone gets violent or does the wrong thing?”

“That almost never happens. You’d be surprised, but most people have a decent moral compass. You just have to give them the opportunity to take responsibility for themselves. Of course, there is always an exception, and that’s when the festival police step in.”

“Good to know.”

“You have a lot of tension in your neck. Have you been stressed out?”

“You could say that.”

“So what do you think of the festival so far?”

“It seems like a lot of fun. I’m still figuring out where everything is. Is there some sort of information booth nearby?”

She laughs. “Not really. Although, if you’re after anything specific, you could go and talk to Hank. He’s been coming here since the festival started over thirty years ago. He also has a photographic memory, so he remembers the entire layout of the camp at a glance and can tell you where anything is within the property.”

“Wow. That sounds cool. Where is he?”

“I’ll take you to him when we’re done.”

“Thank you. That would be lovely.”

I relax into the massage, closing my eyes and breathing in the lemony scent of the massage oil. The combination of having my muscles kneaded and the sense of endless open desert just outside the tent has a kind of hypnotic effect.

I either fall asleep or drift into a trance of some sort – I’m not really sure which – and see flashes of Corey, Brad, Will, Frank, and even Oli all morphing from one face into the other. It reminds me of that bit at the end of Michael Jackson’s
Black or White
video. An overwhelming sense of peace permeates the vision, which is strange, considering how traumatic the majority of my interactions have been with these men. But when I wake up, I feel happy. Arcadia is gently rubbing a towel over my back. “There you go,” she whispers.

I open my eyes and start to sit up, forgetting that I’m not wearing a shirt. I reach down and grab the towel to cover myself, but not before I spot a pair of eyes looking in my direction as they pass by outside the tent.

Eyes belonging to a very cute male. Oops.

He keeps on walking, trying not to smile as he slowly turns his head away.

I face the back of the yurt and put my bra and shirt back on.

“That was amazing,” I tell Arcadia.

“Good. Did you experience anything unusual?”

“What do you mean?” She can’t possibly be talking about my dream sequence just now, can she?

“Most people who come here have visions during my massages. There’s something about the land out here that helps bring up any issues you might need to resolve.”

“Now that you mention it, I did experience something. How strange.”

“That’s great! Just meditate on what you saw and you’ll find the answers you need.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s get you to Hank and see what he has to say.”

Arcadia picks her way through the crowd, heading right to the center of one of the camp circles. In place of a nude sculpture, there is a very scary
Game of Thrones
looking throne with a man perched on it. He’s wearing a long red velvet cape and old fashioned flying goggles. His hair is tied up in a bun high on his head.

“Hank! My friend Chrissie requires your awesome knowledge of the festival layout.”

He peers down at me, not saying anything. I take that as my cue to talk.

“Uh, there’s a well-known movie director shooting a documentary out here. I was just wondering if you knew where he had set up?”

Hank continues to stare at me. At least I think he’s staring. The lenses on his goggles are dark, so I can’t see his eyes. After a minute, he speaks.

“You mean Peter Carson?”

“Yes!” I squeal. Oh my God! A frisson of excitement runs through my body. “You’ve seen him?”

“He’s over in the Shakespeare site in Area 52.”

Arcadia gives me a satisfied smile. “See? I told you Hank would probably know.”

“Thank you so much!” I turn to Arcadia and lower my voice. “Does he want me to tip him or anything?”

She snorts. “Just try it and see what happens. No. Hank sees himself as a bit of a guru. You would be insulting him if you tried to give him money.”

I want to hug Hank or do
something
to show my appreciation, but instead I do a weird little curtsey. “Thank you again.”