The Impulse Purchase, page 22
She found a place in the audience where she felt comfortable, as near to the front as she could get without getting squashed. She pulled her jacket round her as the night air began to cool and darkness fell. And with the dark, everyone dropped down a gear and became more mellow. They were languid, sweaty, affectionate, expectant. They closed around her and she felt safe. A surge of anticipation bubbled up inside her, sweet and intense, and as the first notes began, her heart swelled with joy.
She could feel, she realised. She thought she was never going to be able to feel again. She had been numb for weeks. The only thing she had felt was a grinding despair. But as the music began, she was enraptured, completely enveloped by the hypnotic beat, the soaring, dreamlike chords, the angelic vocals, the darkness soft around her. Song after song lifted her higher and higher. Frank had always told her that music had more power than anything to change you, to heal you. As the final song began, there was a shaft of silver light shining up to the sky, and she felt as if she could climb up towards heaven, as if she could reach out and touch her dad, touch her fingertips to his and feel his warmth.
‘Hey.’ There was a warm voice in her ear, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’
She looked up in surprise, into an unfamiliar face. A pair of deep green eyes under thick, dark brows, wild curly hair, a five o’clock shadow and a Cupid’s bow mouth. He wore an emerald velvet jacket, his chest bare underneath, skin-tight jeans and snakeskin boots.
She didn’t know him, and yet she did. He stared at her for a moment, grave with concern. ‘It’s OK,’ he whispered, and with his thumb gently wiped away the tears she had no idea had been streaming down her face. Then he turned her round to face the stage again, putting both his arms around her from behind, cradling her as the music increased in intensity and she leant against him. They swayed gently in unison as the song reached a crescendo. She could barely breathe for emotion yet she felt safe and warm for the first time in months, wrapped up in a stranger’s hug. She could feel his heartbeat against her back. She had never felt so close to her dad, to another human, to a piece of music. She felt as if she was the music. She never wanted it to end. The song, the night.
The audience erupted into applause as the song faded away, but the stranger held on to her tight. They stood like ballet dancers, their breathing in rhythm, as if waiting for their own applause. Rose thought if she moved he might disappear, that she might turn round to find he had vanished, that he had been a figment of her fevered imagination. As the audience started to melt away, she turned to face him.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘They do that to me too,’ he said. ‘Make me want to cry.’
‘They were my dad’s favourite band. We played Glósóli at his funeral.’
‘Oh.’ Anguish and sympathy flickered across his face.
‘We came here every year. Just me and him. He was really excited about seeing Sigur Rós . . .’
‘Oh, baby,’ he said with a sigh, and he squeezed her hand. ‘He must have been a very cool dad.’
Rose smiled at the thought of Frank being described as cool. ‘No. He wasn’t cool. Definitely not. But he was the best. He was funny. And kind. And everyone loved him.’
‘I’m really, really sorry.’ He was looking straight into her eyes as he spoke. Most people avoided eye contact when she talked about him. ‘He sounds amazing.’
Rose nodded her agreement, unable to speak any more. She felt odd, as if she was stepping from darkness into light. They were facing each other holding hands. She didn’t want to let go. She kept staring at him. He had appeared from nowhere, a complete stranger, yet he felt so reassuringly familiar.
‘I feel a bit funny,’ she said, and he put his palm on her forehead. She shut her eyes and leaned into him. He smelled of cinnamon and oranges and burning candles.
‘I’m going to stay with you, as long as you want me to. But if you want me to leave you alone, just say.’
‘Thank you.’ She squeezed his hand.
The crowds around them had melted away. They were standing almost alone.
‘Is it me,’ Rose ventured at last, ‘or is this weird?’
He didn’t answer for a second, but his eyes roamed her face, taking in every feature. And she didn’t worry that her make-up might be smudged, or her face too shiny, because he seemed to be drinking her in as if she was perfect. ‘It’s kind of weird,’ he said with a sigh.
Rose laughed. ‘We can’t just stand here all night. Shall we go and get a drink?’
‘Sure.’ He put his arm around her and led her through the last straggles of people. Rose snuggled into him, relishing his warmth and his Christmassy smell that made her head swim a little. For the first time in months that cold, hard lump at the very core of her seemed to melt away as they wandered through the crowds, with no real idea of where they were going. There was no need to know. People seemed to part for them as they walked by. She shivered with the thrill of it all and he thought she was cold.
‘Let’s stop here,’ he said outside a bar. ‘Sit down and I’ll get something to warm you up.’
She sat on a rough wooden bench and he disappeared into the crowd at the bar. She felt a little dazed, but confident he would return. How on earth had this happened? It was completely unexpected. She’d never had a big love. Her boyfriends were usually mates of friends who she mucked about with until they drifted apart amicably. And she’d made a decision at Christmas to stay single until her A levels were finished.
At the memory of her exams, a tiny dart of anxiety needled its way back in but she flicked it away. And then he emerged from the melée with an espresso martini cradled in each hand.
‘Oh wow,’ she said. ‘How did you know that’s my favourite?’
‘Because it’s mine,’ he said with a shrug, and they both laughed. The martinis were good ones – dark and not too sweet and loaded with shots of vanilla vodka.
‘You’ve got coffee fluff on your top lip,’ he told her, laughing, and before she could put her hand up to wipe it away, he leant forward to brush it away with his thumb. She drew in a sharp breath and he rested his thumb on her mouth and she shut her eyes and leaned in to kiss him, bold with vodka and their electricity. He tasted of sugar and cream and coffee and she wound her fingers in his hair, pulling him in tighter, and she didn’t want this magical night to end. She would never have believed it was possible for her to feel like this, bursting with light and energy and something that felt very potent and intoxicating. She had thought she would be cold and hard and dead inside for ever.
It was starting to rain. Gentle drops, but insistent, falling in a way that hinted they were just a prelude to a downpour.
‘Come on.’ He jumped up and held out his hand. She took it without demur and followed him back to his tent, too wrapped up in the wonder of it all to really notice where they were going.
‘I’d carry you over the threshold,’ he said, unzipping the front. ‘But it’s a bit too low. You’ll have to crawl inside.’
There was nothing cosier than being tucked up inside a tent while the rain fell. He draped a spare blanket around her shoulders and magicked a bar of Fruit & Nut from a rucksack while he made them a nest on his sleeping mat, turned on a lantern and put some music on a little portable speaker. Goldfrapp. She smiled in recognition and approval. Then he dug around and found a couple of cans of cider. They sat huddled together, sharing the chocolate and sipping at their drinks, until both their cans were empty and there wasn’t a crumb of chocolate left. There was a silence, and Rose wondered if perhaps she’d imagined the bond between them, and she was about to suggest that she’d better go and find her own tent before it got too late when he put both arms around her and pulled her to him.
‘I just want to hold you,’ he said. ‘All night long. You make me feel so warm. Inside and out.’ Then he laughed, and she loved the way his eyes turned down, and a little dimple appeared high up on his cheek. ‘I’ve just realised. I don’t even know your name.’
‘Rose,’ she told him.
‘Rose,’ he said, as if it was the most intriguing and unusual name he’d ever heard. ‘It suits you perfectly. I should have known that’s what you were called.’
‘And yours?’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘They call me Ziggy. It’s my nickname. My mum’s a massive Bowie fan. My real name’s too boring for words.’
‘That’s a great name. It suits you.’
Rose and Ziggy, thought Rose. Ziggy and Rose. It sounded good, whichever way round you said it.
She woke up next to him, the two of them entwined inside his sleeping bag. His arms were around her, possessive, reassuring, and she lay for a few moments, enjoying the heat and the closeness, remembering the remains of the night before with a quickening heart. Had she dreamt it, or had it been perfect? She didn’t think it was a dream, given that their clothes were in a discarded tangle on the floor. She felt a flush scamper over her cheeks. She wasn’t in the habit of jumping into bed with strangers. But he hadn’t felt like a stranger. Far from it.
She needed the loo, and she needed to wash and brush her teeth at the very least. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him, even for a few minutes, but if she was quick, she could be back inside his arms before he’d even noticed she was gone. She unzipped the sleeping bag quietly and rolled out. He stirred, gave a groan, reached out for her hand without opening his eyes.
‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she whispered, and he nodded, squeezing her fingers before drifting back to sleep.
She pulled on her clothes as quickly as she could. Outside there was a steady drizzle. The rainbow bright colours of yesterday were nowhere to be seen. Just rows and rows of khaki and navy and grey in the half light. The sun had no intention of making an appearance yet. She shivered in the chill of early morning, keeping her head down in a fruitless attempt to stay dry, heading for the wash area she knew to have the best facilities. It was quite a walk, but it would be worth it to feel clean and fresh.
The queue had a dawn camaraderie: everyone sleepy and dishevelled and damp. Rose hugged herself to keep warm and realised she was smiling at anyone who caught her eye, still wrapped up in the thrill of Ziggy.
‘Good night?’ one girl grinned at her, and she blushed and nodded.
When she came out from her makeshift wash and brush-up, the rain was falling even harder. She tried to get her bearings, and realised with disquiet that she’d been in such a daze she’d forgotten to take note of exactly where Ziggy’s tent was. She started to head in what she thought was the right direction and then stopped. Was it the other way? Think, she told herself. Which direction had she approached from? She was light-headed from lack of sleep and a tiny bit hung-over. She tried to think back to the night before, and where they had headed, but she hadn’t been taking any notice. She had followed him blindly.
This way, she reassured herself. Definitely this way. She huddled under her jumper as the rain doubled its efforts, so torrential she could barely see in front of her. The world seemed to be dissolving as she walked into a sludgy mixture of grey and brown. Walking became difficult as the ground beneath her feet turned to thick mud, pulling her under, wrapping her boots in heavy clay. Within minutes she was soaked to the skin, shivering. She walked past tent after tent, but she couldn’t remember what colour his was. She hadn’t been able to see it in the dark, hadn’t noticed when she left for the loos. Everyone was rushing for cover, charging past her. The sky was glowering and offered no hope. The entire mood had changed. All the joy and laughter of yesterday seemed to be washed away by the rain.
She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t knock on every tent to see if he was inside. Could she? She told herself to keep calm and have a system. Use her common sense. That’s what Frank would tell her. Find a fixed point and work your way around. But it was impossible. There were acres and acres of rain-soaked tents, all identical. All the landmarks were hidden by the mist that seemed to have descended.
She slipped in the mud and fell over. She stayed still for a moment, crouched on all fours, humiliated, but no one seemed to notice her. They were all intent on escaping the deluge. No one cared about a silly girl who’d fallen over in the mud. She got back up again and trudged towards the gate.
Maybe she should go back and find her own tent? She knew where that was because she’d made a note of its exact position. Maybe she should go back and get dry and warm, then go out and look again when the rain stopped. Ziggy would be asleep for ages, probably. It was still early in the morning. No one got up early if they didn’t have to.
In the end, she decided that was the only logical thing to do. Her own tent was right the other side of the site, and it took her nearly an hour to find it, by which time she was exhausted and tearful, her clothes heavy with rainwater. She fell inside, relieved. It took ages to pull off her clothes and get herself dry. She pulled out a fresh set of underwear, leggings and a t-shirt and a hoody. No fancy dress today, she just wanted to get warm.
And find Ziggy. She felt panic. She could wander around all day and not find him. She pulled out her mobile. They should have swapped numbers. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But she’d been so loved up when she left the tent, drifting along on a tide of elation, that she hadn’t had practicalities on her mind. All she’d wanted was to get back to him as quickly as she could so they could plan their day.
Of course it was too good to be true. Of course she wasn’t allowed to have someone who made her feel safe and happy. Of course he was going to be snatched away from her.
She remembered his touch. His mouth. His voice. His laughter. Their laughter.
She pulled a waterproof poncho from her rucksack, slipped it on and pulled up the hood. She was starting to shiver despite her dry clothes. Then a moment later she felt hot, and too weak to stand. She collapsed onto her mat and lay for a moment. There was a dull ache inside her bones, followed by shooting pains. She was sweating but freezing.
Tears streamed down her face. She wanted her dad. He would come along and get her back up on her feet. Jolly her along. Why wasn’t he here? He was always up early. He’d be crouched over his little gas stove, making her a comforting cup of tea, boiling some eggs, pouring water into pots of instant porridge with golden syrup.
‘An army marches on its stomach,’ he would tell her, and she would protest at first but would always feel better afterwards.
Her teeth were chattering now. She was sweating inside the poncho and pulled it off. She missed him so much it hurt. Was that what this was? Was her grief literally making her ill? Maybe she should go to one of the first-aid tents and get checked out?
Or maybe she should just go home? She was never going to be able to find Ziggy. The chances of bumping into him were remote – a hundred thousand people. And she didn’t want to be here a moment longer without Frank.
She dialled her mum’s number, praying she had enough signal.
‘Mum?’ she said as Maggie answered. ‘Can you come and pick me up?’
‘Are you OK?’
She could hear the panic in her voice.
‘I just don’t feel very well.’ She tried not to alarm her.
She packed away her things as quickly as she could, loading them onto her luggage trolley and covering them in a bin liner to keep dry. Then she battled to take down the tent and fold it back up. A spiteful wind made this even more difficult, snatching the canvas out of her hands, and the whole thing was soaked through by the time she’d finished. She shoved it on top of everything else and began to drag the trolley through the mud.
‘Oh, sweetheart.’ There she was, her mum, in her weekend joggers and a denim jacket, jumping out of the car to help her and giving her an enormous hug. ‘Hey, it’s OK. You were so brave to go and I’m so sorry it didn’t work out.’
Rose got into the car without telling her mother any more.
As they left the festival and started on the winding road back to Avonminster, Rose felt as if she had left a piece of her heart behind. She knew now she would never see Ziggy again. If she couldn’t find him at Glastonbury, she certainly wouldn’t be able to find him afterwards, once they’d made their way back into the real world.
Maggie bundled her into a hot bath filled with lavender bath salts as soon as they got home. Rose gradually felt the heat make its way back into her core, then slipped into a pair of pyjamas and into the bed her mum had made up with fresh linen. She took the shirt she had been wearing into bed with her. If she breathed in really deeply, she could smell Ziggy, and it brought him back so vividly. She remembered the very weight of him on her.
She felt more tired than she had ever felt. Her curtains billowed slightly with the breeze from the open window, and if she listened really hard she could hear music. What was he watching now? What had he thought when she hadn’t come back? Had he understood, or had he thought she’d done a runner? He would never know how hard she had tried to find him.
She felt cold again. She began to shiver and curled up into a ball. When Maggie came back to check on her half an hour later, she was burning up.
‘I’m never going to see him again,’ she said to her mum, wild with despair.
Maggie thought she was talking about Frank. The agony of seeing her child in pain was almost too much to bear, for she knew herself how much it hurt.
‘Shhh,’ she said, smoothing Rose’s hair back from her sweating forehead.
And then Rose remembered something. She had left their list behind, in Ziggy’s tent. The list she and her dad had made together. The one she kept in her bag, but had taken out to show Ziggy. The list that had been folded and unfolded so many times; that had her dad’s handwriting on it, with his star system, and his unique timetable, and the little pictures of drinks and hot dogs for food breaks. And she couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing it, or her dad, or Ziggy again. And it was as if all the grief she had been saving up inside her came out all at once. The tears she hadn’t cried.
