Well. She didn’t let the grass grow under her feet. You had to hand it to her, Barney thought with a sense of grudging admiration: she’d survive an earthquake and hurricane combined, Tamara would. And come up looking immaculate. And sexy. Micky Burne Proctor, eh? In the Sunday Times rich list the previous year. Hedge-fund boy. Better prospect than Toby.
He couldn’t think why she’d want him at her leaving do. But… might be fun. He hadn’t had much of that lately. He wondered if Toby knew. Or cared.
“Order, order. Georgia, you first.”
“Right. Well the play-offs are going brilliantly. We’ve already got three winners from three pubs. One’s really fantastic. Called Literate. I don’t think they’ll be unsigned for much longer. Oh, and a sweet folk band as well. Lots of stalls are coming on board… face painting, weaving, a little roundabout, a bouncy castle. Everything we discussed, really. Some guy’s got a hat stall… says they went really well at Glastonbury”
“What sort of hats?” said Abi.
“Every sort. Baseball hats, sort of trilbies, berets, reggae hats, sun hats for kids. Oh, and some really nice girl’s got a sort of beauty stall, does, like, makeovers and massages and all stuff like that. What do you think?”
“Mmm.” Abi considered this. “No, don’t think so. Doesn’t go with the family feel. But quite like hats. Welly stall?”
“Oh, yes, got one of those. Merlin says it’s essential, don’t you, Merlin?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, I do hope it doesn’t rain,” said Emma.
“It will,” said Abi. “Best to accept it. After that anything’s a bonus. We might even get some good gear out of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some guy I met, friend of William’s, he had a festival on his land. It rained so hard, two-day festival it was, people were just getting into their cars at the end, stepping out of their filthy, muddy clothes and just leaving them. This guy said lots of it was really good stuff: Fat Face, Abercrombie, all that. His wife washed it about thee times and then they wore it. And their kids, loads of Boden.”
“Cool. Best pray for rain then.”
“Who’s responsible for litter?” asked Merlin.
“Me, I s’pose,” said Abi. “Comes under the heading of site management.”
“Make sure you’ve got loads and loads of bins and bags. Twice as much as you think.”
“Yes, please do,” said William. He had a sudden vision of endless acres of litter and what his father might say or do.
“OK, OK.”
“You need people specially briefed to pick it up too,” said Merlin. “It’s really important. And loos… Abi, is that you?”
“Yeah, I’m toilet queen.”
“Can we not have those awful urinals in rows where you face the other blokes and try not to look at them, and you all pee into a pit in the middle?”
“Sounds fun. I’ll do my best. How are the bookings looking, Georgia?”
“Oh, nothing much yet. But the Web site’s only been up and running a couple of weeks. Lots of hits, though.”
“Great. Any reactions to the name?”
“Nope. Well, only from my mum. She thinks it’s great. She had an LP called In Good Company in the seventies.”
“Great. Exactly the image we’re after. Mum’s favourites. Oh, dear. Maybe we should change it.”
“We shouldn’t,” said Merlin firmly. “It’s a great name.”
“Yeah, well, you would say that,” said Georgia. “You thought of it.”
“Shut up. Any other objections?”
There weren’t.
“OK. Well, I’ve got everything booked site-wise,” said Abi.
“Arena, electrics, sound systems, water. What does everyone think about campfires?”
“We think no campfires,” said William firmly.
“Barbecues?”
“Not happy.”
“William! People love them. Specially families.”
“I’ll… think about it.”
“Bless. We’ve got the alcohol licence; the police are on-side. Got St. John’s for the first-aid tent as well.”
“You’ve done so well,” said Georgia, beaming at her. “Security?”
“I’ve talked to a couple of firms. Both very expensive.”
“You have to have security,” said Merlin. “And they have to check for drugs.”
“Yes, all right. I know that. I just said they were expensive. Now, what are we going to do with our thousand pounds from wonderful Mrs. Mackenzie? Blow the lot on publicity, say, or split it, put it into the various pots?”
“I think split it,” said William, “in case we don’t get any more.”
“William, you are such a ray of sunshine,” said Georgia irritably.
She was very jumpy now; Moving Away was going on air in three weeks, and the publicity machine was cranking up. Davina and Bryn Merrick had been the most in demand. Davina’s lovely, laughing face had been everywhere, but Georgia had done two interviews already, one for the Daily News arts roundup and one for You magazine, both of them talking her up as one of the new faces of the summer. She was surprised about it, hadn’t thought anyone would take any notice of her. The one in You had been a big profile, very personal, had asked her about being adopted-and by white parents, had that been difficult, how had she coped-and had mentioned, inevitably, the crash. She’d hated it, but Linda told her it was fantastic she was getting so much coverage, and she should just be grateful.
“You’re getting talked about; most people at your stage would give their eyeteeth for any publicity.”
The DVDs of the show hadn’t gone out to the critics yet; she was dreading that, everyone seeing how bad she’d been. Although the girl from You magazine, who had managed to wangle one out of the press office, said she’d been “stunningly good.” Well, what did she know?
The meeting was over; the others left. Abi looked at William and smiled. “Love you.”
“Love you too. You… busy now?”
“Not terribly. You?”
“I’ve got an hour or so.”
“Cool.”
“Where’s Sylvie?”
“Out for the night. With Mr. Perv.”
“Right then. Shall we…”
“Yeah. I want to show you something first, though.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“No, no,” said Abi. “It’s what I’m going to wear on Friday.”
“Couldn’t it be afterwards?”
“No. You might find it exciting; you never know. Although, actually, I hope not. Give me five minutes.”
“OK. No more, though.”
“No, promise.”
She was back in ten.
“How do I look?”
“Blimey,” said William.
“Is that it? Don’t you like it?”
“Quite… you don’t look quite yourself.”
“That was the idea.”
“Abi, you are yourself. That’s why I love you.”
“I know, but…”
She walked out into the hall and looked at herself in the long mirror there. It was true: she didn’t look quite herself. She looked good, though, she thought. She was wearing grey trousers and a pink wraparound sweater. And low-heeled shoes. Her makeup was… well, it was rather nice, she thought. Grey eyeshadow, grey eyeliner, not much mascara, pink lip gloss. Her hair was tied back.
She went back to William.
“I think I look great.”
“Well… you do. But… not yourself. Like I said. And why?”
“I thought it would be more suitable this way. More the sort of girl they’d like. Approve of.”