That’s a given. “Of course. Consider it done.”
* * *
The next nightI’m just about bursting with excitement. Since I don’t have work, I shout Marigold to a shopping trip and together we pick out dresses that can politely be called scandalous and less politely might be called…
But who wants to be less polite? They’re fabulous. That’s what they are.
I’ve booked a car service to take us to the venue and searched online for the most elaborate cocktails to use up some of the expensive liquor that Micah brought for me, which, apart from the first shot of vodka, remain untouched.
“Mm. Fruity,” Marigold says in approval when she gets a taste. “How many of these before we won’t remember a single thing about the night?”
“About forty. I scrimped on the alcohol content for precisely that reason.” And so I don’t have Mrs Quess on the phone to me tomorrow berating me for leading her daughter astray.
The closer it gets to showtime, the more my excitement builds. I’ve been to two concerts before, but one of them was Anika Moa and the other was The Wiggles so I’m not sure they really count.
“If I get sucked into the mosh pit, you’ll save me, right?”
Marigold trills with laughter and clinks her glass against mine. “I don’t think his concerts head in that direction, but if you’ll do the same for me, it’s a deal.”
When the car arrives, Leven checks out the vehicle, glowering at the impatient driver all the while. When the man pointedly glances at his watch, the guard rumbles, “You charge for waiting time, don’t you?” The man nods and Leven adds, “Then wait.”
Nothing can put a dampener on our moods. Even a grumpy bodyguard and an even grumpier chauffeur. I ordered the vehicle for so early that we still have plenty of time. Even if the grounds are as packed as I expect, we won’t miss a single second of the concert.
I expect crowds to gather around the entrance, but it’s clear as we draw nearer to the venue. A lone ticket keeper stands at the door, and he tears off the stubs, handing them back to Marigold. “Please keep to the marked paths,” he says, pointing to the green painted strip on the concrete. “Your entrance is marked A4.”
Any concern I had about the night evaporates and I grab hold of Marigold’s hand, close to squealing with delight. Inside, the way is clear. I must have ordered the car so early that nobody else is here yet.
Leven stands back at the entrance, unable to access the place without a ticket. I would feel sorry for him but it’s nice to be out from under his watchful gaze.
I find the gate, then Marigold hands me one stub. “Here. You go ahead. I need to find the nearest loo.”
“I’ll come with—”
“No. Go on ahead,” she says, and her eyes skate to the side, refusing to meet mine.
“You’re sure?”
She gives a tight nod and I walk up the narrow staircase, then out into the stadium proper. The room is enormous, my footsteps echoing around the stark expanse as I gingerly step inside.
Nobody else is here.
This is ridiculous. Something is seriously wrong. I put a hand to my chest as my heart speeds up to double its usual rate.
Then a man walks onto the stage and I relax.
It’s him. Jaymes Fletcher. Even without his image being relayed to the enormous overhead monitor, I would recognise him. I must have watched his videos on YouTube at least a hundred thousand times.
My walk increases to a trot as I close the distance to the stage. A large spotlight picks out a circle in the middle of the empty floor.
The singer clears his throat too near the mic and feedback shrieks through the large speakers. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Not used to playing for such a reduced crowd.”
Reduced. That’s an understatement.
I glance back towards the gate, hoping to see Marigold emerge from her bathroom break. Instead, I see a larger figure moving out of the shadows.
When he steps into the light, I don’t know why I didn’t piece it together earlier.
Micah.
