Angel Dares Page 4

  That was likely true. My shoulders slumped. ‘I expect they won’t let me within a mile of any of Gifted. But anyway,’ I lifted my chin, ‘I’m doing this for Will. It’s all about you, it’s all about you, baby.’

  As I struck up the classic track, a favourite from my childhood, Alex joined in, adding the harmony. Will laughed and beat time on my backpack. Misty and Summer added their voices to mine on the main tune. Singing, we entered the campsite.

  I approached the performers’ entrance a little fearfully. I would not put it past Jay to have failed to request a pass for me. That would be so like him: offer something then whip it away at the last moment to make me suffer and have to beg my way into his presence.

  In the Portakabin, the security guard, a great black bear of a man, frowned down at the newcomer carrying two violins. I suppose I was possibly the only performer to arrive on foot and alone.

  I put down Black Adder and showed him my letter of engagement. I had to go on tiptoes to reach the window, which made me feel like Frodo the hobbit arriving at the Inn at Bree where the big people live. ‘Hello, I’m Angel Campbell. You should have a pass for me, I hope?’

  He took the letter from my fingers, scowled at it as if it had just bopped him on the nose, then he looked through a box of envelopes. He tugged out one with my name typed on the outside. Phew. Checking the address against the letter, his face broke into the first smile it had probably seen since England won the World Cup.

  ‘Miss A. C. D. Campbell?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Initials AC/DC?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  He flourished the envelope. ‘Best group ever.’

  I’d discovered another old rocker—that figured, seeing the job for which he had volunteered. ‘So my dad says.’

  He handed down my letter and envelope with much more warmth than he had first shown me. ‘Welcome to Rockport, Miss Campbell. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m Al.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Al. Can you point me to the instrument store?’

  ‘No problem. Head straight through the green room—that’s that circular tent. On the far side you’ll find several locked storage units. Your envelope contains the code for the one your band has been allocated.’

  ‘Great.’

  He leaned forward over the edge of the window to take a better look at my luggage. ‘Who you playing with, pet?’

  ‘Seventh Edition.’

  His face registered his disappointment. ‘Haven’t heard of you.’

  ‘Haven’t heard of us yet,’ I corrected.

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll try to catch you on stage then.’

  Pleased with that encounter, even if it was all thanks to my absurd initials, I walked swiftly to the green room. The festival site stretched over several fields and ended abruptly at the low cliffs of Brighouse-by-Sea. The short springy grass saw flocks of sheep more often than musicians in residence. There was still plenty of evidence underfoot of their habitation in little traps of dried droppings. Lovely. The performers’ area was established to the left of the main stage. That was famous for being built jutting out over the cliff with the stunning backdrop of the sea. Shelter was provided by the pine woods that curved around the site so from above, in the helicopter shots, the site looked like a half moon of green bitten out of the dark forest. Once filled with people, music, and lights, it was going to be stunning. I couldn’t wait.

  I pushed open the flap of the tent to be greeted by the faint tang of incense. Turkish carpets covered the ground, muffling sound.

  ‘Welcome to the yurt. Can I see your pass please?’ The attractive girl on the reception desk glanced down at the envelope in my hand. Her brunette hair was swept up in a French plait and she was wearing vibrant red lipstick—no sign that she was roughing it in a sheep field.

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I put down my violins and cracked open the seal. ‘And the winner is: Angel Campbell!’ I tugged out the blue lanyard and hooped it over my head.

  She didn’t get the joke—or if she did, thought it too lame to be noticed. ‘Please wear your pass at all times and make sure you do not leave it lying about. We take security very seriously.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’m here to help you with any of your needs—booking taxis, questions about how things run, changes to the performance schedule: you name it, I’m the person to come to.’ Her smile was automatic.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The refreshments in this tent are available for you free of charge.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘But we would appreciate it if you respect the privacy of other performers. This is the space where our guests are supposed to be able to relax and not worry about the press snooping on their activities.’

  How had she sniffed out my fangirl propensities? ‘I understand.’ I was itching to ask her about Gifted but somehow I just knew that would go down like garlic bread at a vampire’s dinner party. She turned away and began leafing through pages clipped to a board. I hovered.

  She lifted her gaze back to me and raised a brow—Lord, how I wish I could do that. ‘Is there anything you need now?’

  ‘I was just wondering who else has arrived already.’ There: that was nice and vague.

  She glanced down at her list. ‘You are the first from your group. We’ve had a few early arrivals, mainly those supporting the show tonight.’ She ran through a few names, many of whom I had seen on YouTube or heard live. ‘The big names for this evening aren’t expected until after three.’

  ‘And … um … Gifted—anyone from that group here yet?’

  Her expression hardened. ‘No. They don’t perform until Friday as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I just thought they might send someone in advance, you know: to check things out?’

  ‘Well, they haven’t registered yet. They won’t be here until tomorrow at the earliest.’

  Someone cleared his throat behind me.

  ‘If that’s everything Miss Campbell, I have to get on. I’ve other guests to see to.’ Her eyes rose to the person at my shoulder and her smile warmed thirty degrees.

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ I bent to pick up my violin but a hand was already on Freddie before I could reach for him. I straightened and found myself looking up into a pair of ice-blue eyes in a tanned face, topped by a spiky fringe of gold-shot hair. My lips moved before my brain caught up. ‘Oh my God!’

  The guy’s lips quirked into a smile, revealing cute bracket lines either side of his mouth. ‘Not God: Marcus Cohen.’

  Walked into that one, hadn’t I? ‘I meant … ’ What had I meant: you are so gorgeous that I couldn’t help myself?

  He didn’t wait for me to embarrass myself further. ‘Here: this is yours, I think?’ He thrust Freddie at me. ‘Sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Henry, do you have a message for me?’

  Henry—she who manned the reception—fluttered and batted her eyelashes at him. Even her cool efficiency melted in the heat of the dark-blond god’s wry smile. ‘Oh, yes, Marcus. Margot Derkx called by and left this for you.’ She handed over a folded piece of paper.

  Marcus ‘OMG’ Cohen flicked it open. ‘Sweet. See you later.’ He strode off. Never had SuperDry beanie, long-sleeved grey T-shirt, and faded jeans looked so good.

  ‘Was that really him?’ I asked, patting my heart.

  Still feeling the warming after-effects of his visit, Henry smiled conspiratorially at me. ‘Yes, Miss Campbell, that was Marcus Cohen.’

  ‘Call me Angel.’

  Henry pursed her lips. ‘Angel: really?’

  ‘It’s my name.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Well, Angel, keep an eye on that one. He’s headed for big things.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that.’ I’d seen his face in the music press often enough and even cut out a photo to add to the guys who made the Wall of Buffness in my bedroom. ‘He plays with that new group, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Black Belt. They’re touring with Gifted. The three of t
hem released their first album at Christmas. Very hot property at the moment: we were lucky to sign them along with Gifted.’

  ‘Very hot,’ I agreed.

  Despite herself, Henry let out a humanizing giggle. ‘Uh-huh. You’d better call me Henry—short for Henrietta.’

  ‘See you later, Henry.’ I headed for the storeroom. This mission for Will looked like it might have some excellent side benefits.

  Having seen Freddie and Black Adder safely stowed, I texted my friends that I was going to hang around for a while to acclimatize. Helping myself to a juice, crisps and a couple of sandwiches, I found a table outside the yurt and tried to look as though I belonged. The places rapidly filled up with new arrivals grabbing a late lunch before the sessions began on the second and third stages. Main stage didn’t kick off until seven thirty. No sign of Marcus Cohen. A man in a leather jacket took a spare seat next to me without asking, too busy checking his emails and smoking to bother with courtesy. I was amused to hear that, when he took a call, he managed to use the f-word in every sentence with mind-boggling variations.

  ‘Angel!’ Two meaty hands landed on my shoulder, making me jump.

  ‘Matt! You just got here?’

  ‘Yeah. Jay got lost near Exeter.’

  ‘You’re supposed to turn off way before Exeter.’

  Matt grinned. ‘That’s what I told him.’ He put his beer and packet of crisps next to me. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘No idea.’

  The man frowned at us as if it was our fault for talking at the table I had been occupying before his arrival.

  ‘Have you met Joey Reef and Fresh Chance?’ Matt waved to a couple of guys cutting a swathe through the milling crowds with their loose-hipped stride. They diverted from their path to join our table. ‘They’re both from London too.’

  ‘Hey, Matt: how’s it going?’ The taller of the two brushed hands with the drummer. An impressive six-foot plus, he had shaved black hair, dark brows and stubble sculpted into sharp lines. Not that I’m shallow or anything but, on the strength of his appearance, I made a note to catch him later in performance.

  His friend wore his hair in little dreads, had thick-rimmed black glasses and a Che Guevara cap. ‘And what’s a girl like this doing sitting with you, man? Your luck changed?’

  ‘Fresh, this is Angel. She’s in Seventh Edition with me,’ Matt explained.

  ‘Angel.’ Fresh perched on the table between the leather jacket man and me. ‘Fallen among us to make my dreams come true?’

  I shook hands. ‘You might be a teeny bit disappointed if you’re expecting me to work miracles.’

  ‘How’s that Jay guy treating you?’ asked Joey, leaning on the back of my chair, making me feel like a piece of cheese in a man sandwich. ‘Matt says he’s a pain in the ass.’

  ‘He treats her like rubbish,’ said Matt.

  ‘No fair, man.’ Fresh stole a crisp. ‘If I had a girl like Angel on my side, I’d treat her right.’

  ‘He doesn’t have your good sense and impeccable taste,’ I told him.

  ‘Do you mind?’ interrupted the leather jacket. ‘I’m trying to work here.’

  Not bothering to look round, Joey laughed derisively. ‘Yeah, we do mind.’

  The man stood up and flicked ash in our direction, before stomping away to another table.

  ‘I see he’s been to the rock school of charm. Is that like Jay’s dad?’ asked Fresh.

  ‘No, that’s Barry Hungerford, record producer,’ said Jay, arriving just in time to see the exchange. He was smirking: someone else’s mistake always cheered him up.

  Both rappers swore—something they did with great invention and fluency. ‘Oh, man. He’s only got five of the top fifty hip-hop artists on his label,’ moaned Fresh. ‘I didn’t know he would look so … ’

  ‘Miserable?’ I suggested.

  Jay took one look at our little cluster, and then the space next to Barry Hungerford on the far table, before heading over to join the bigger fish.

  ‘Don’t worry, guys,’ I said, patting Fresh on the knee. ‘If he wants to sign up rappers then he’ll want you with, you know, an edge? Politeness isn’t a selling point in that market.’

  ‘You’ve got a smart girl there, Matt. Let me get another round before that dumbass Jay drinks all the good stuff,’ offered Joey, moving swiftly to cover his embarrassment.

  I held out my empty. ‘Why, thank you. So generous with the free bar.’

  Grinning, he took my glass. ‘Watch it, Angel. I’m an edgy rapper, remember.’

  ‘I’m quivering in my boots—or I would if I were wearing them.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ He sauntered off, slapping hands with several acquaintances.

  By the time the lights came on to illuminate the outside tables, we had gathered quite a crew. Henry had joined us as she came off duty, having been drawn in by Joey’s jokes as he passed to and from the bar. Fresh, Joey, and Matt had many friends from the music scene—sound and lighting technicians as well as other artists, so we numbered about twenty, the largest group by far among those joining the early-evening lull in festival events. It was amazing having so many talented people together in one place, sparking off each other. I felt a little drunk on the excitement. Somehow I found myself singing with Fresh, doing a cover of a favourite track, that led to a couple of others getting out their acoustic guitars and then I was dancing on the table with Henry. Don’t ask me how that happened, but we made a surprisingly successful duo. She confessed that she had volunteered for the festival because she had ambitions as a performer herself. It wasn’t until I jumped down that I realized Marcus Cohen had taken a seat at Barry Hungerford’s hostile encampment over the other side of the decking area and had been watching us. I suddenly wasn’t so sure I had been impressive: to a guy headed for big things, perhaps I just looked as though I was trying too hard to catch the record producer’s attention? I swear Hungerford’s presence hadn’t been any part of my motivation: it’s just I can’t sit still when there is so much music to enjoy.

  But Marcus still looked so gorgeous and a little bit lonely stuck on the boring table.

  I nudged Henry. ‘Go ask Marcus to join us.’

  Tucking a stray strand of brunette hair behind her ear, she glanced over at him. ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m too shy.’

  ‘Geez, Henry: you’ve just been strutting your stuff in front of an audience of strangers. No way are you shy.’

  ‘With him, I am. You do it.’

  ‘Me? He doesn’t know me.’

  ‘He only knows me as staff. I’m not supposed to approach the guests.’

  That was the moment when I wished I could raise a brow like she did. ‘Really?’

  ‘You lot don’t count. You’re … ’ She blushed. ‘Normal.’

  Not quite, but I understood what she meant. We were the festival qualifiers; over at Hungerford’s exclusive table were the top seeded players—and Jay.

  I rubbed my palms together. ‘Right: I’ll do it.’

  ‘Angel!’ I don’t think she believed I had the guts for it and now she looked quite worried for me.

  I jiggled my clothes straight. ‘It’s OK. I won’t be creepy stalker. I’ll be friendly.’ I was already regretting this but something was eating at me. The guy deserved a break. He was sitting with smarmy Jay and charmless Barry as well as three other serious-looking business people. Our side of the patio was having way more fun.

  As Fresh and Joey broke into a rap battle with Matt drumming on a chair, I made my way over to the far table. I had already decided an indirect approach was best.

  ‘Hey, Jay, how was the journey?’

  Jay rubbed his jaw, puzzled at my sudden desire to talk to him after my ice cube manner of the last few weeks. ‘OK,’ he said finally.

  ‘Do you want to join us?’ I waved to my little party.

  ‘I might later.’ His eyes went to Barry, who was still busy with his emails and phone calls. Ja
y had been keeping the producer furnished with drinks and snacks, playing errand boy in the hopes of getting a chance to make his pitch.

  ‘And what about you, um, Marcus?’ I asked, aware my cheeks were torpedoing my attempt to seem cool and collected.

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Marcus’ expression was broadcasting irritation, scowl lines furrowing his brow under the beanie. He made me feel like an autograph hunter on Hollywood Boulevard pestering an A-lister.

  Arms across my chest, I squeezed my elbows. ‘We wouldn’t make you sing—or dance. Only hopeless extroverts like me get to do that.’

  ‘So I saw.’

  Ouch. ‘Right, so that’s a “no” then?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a “no”.’

  It took a lot for me to walk back to our party with my head held high. I had mistakenly thought Marcus was OK when he had made the crack about OMG when we first met; but it turned out he considered himself above us. He went down in my book as more like Jay than Matt.

  ‘No luck?’ whispered Henry, who had been watching my diplomatic mission.

  I shrugged, boosting my smile by extra sass. ‘His loss.’ I jumped up on the table again and slapped Joey on the head. ‘Sing something we can dance to, why don’t you?’

  Joey broke off his battle and jumped up next to me. ‘Hey, girl, let’s show them all how Londoners do party time.’

  The guitarists struck up a fast club number, Matt cranked up the beat, Fresh did the vocals and the rest of us danced along.

  See, Marcus Cohen, we didn’t need you or your approval to have a good time.

  The party broke up as the evening programme began. Most of my new friends were needed to man the soundboard or lights so had to leave for the technical checks. I was just saying my goodbyes to Fresh and Joey when my phone clucked and Misty’s text came through.

  Do you want pizza?

  They’d be wanting an update and I’d let time run away with me. I’d rather drifted off mission, hadn’t I? Texting a quick reply, I hurried back to the campsite. In my absence my friends had pitched the tents and got everything organized so they were now more than ready to dive into the festival.