Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (classic literature list .TXT) 📗

and to the fields, joining the huge queue to get in. ‘Can’t we queue-jump?’ asked Chantel. She didn’t have a backpack and was hauling an out-of-place wheelie suitcase. ‘Cos you guys are in a band.’ She said the second half of her sentence loudly, but no one looked around.

‘We’re hardly The Chemical Brothers,’ said Tim, sounding rather embarrassed. ‘I think we wait like everyone else.’

‘Spoilsport,’ said Chantel. ‘What’s the point of being a rock star if you don’t get special treatment?’

‘The music,’ said Tim.

‘Whatever,’ said Chantel.

‘You girls are festival virgins, right?’ asked Simon. Chantel and Amy glanced at each other and nodded. ‘A few tips from an expert,’ he continued, as they finally went into the fields. ‘One. Travel light. You’ve already failed that one, Chantel, by bringing that ridiculous suitcase.’

‘I need somewhere to keep my hair straighteners,’ she replied.

‘Course you do,’ said Simon, with a laugh. ‘And where are you planning to plug them in, genius?’

‘There must be plug sockets,’ said Chantel. ‘How do you plug your guitars in?’

‘She’s got a point,’ said Tim, laughing. ‘I can just see Chantel at the corner of the stage, straightening her hair while the Red Hot Chilis are playing.’

‘Got to look my best,’ said Chantel, with a smile.

‘Number two,’ continued Simon, ‘provisions. The food on site is overpriced and shit. Once we’ve dumped our stuff we go to the Tesco in town and stock up. Sausage rolls, beer, sausage rolls. No one is eating poncy quiches and hummus near my tent. I’m looking at you, Tim.’

‘One time,’ said Tim. ‘And you’ll never let me forget.’

‘Number three. Where to camp. You think you want near the loos in case of night-time pees, but you don’t. These are festival toilets and they stink. You think you want near the bushes for shelter. You don’t. Bushes are makeshift loos for the lazy. They stink too. You think you want near where the bands are playing. Wrong again. People get drunk while they listen and vomit on their way back. You don’t want to be on the vomit trail. It stinks.’

‘So where do you want to be?’ asked Chantel.

‘High ground,’ said Simon. ‘You want all the crap running somewhere else.’ Both girls pulled a face. ‘Midway, mid-field. Minimise the risk of anyone pissing on your tent.’

‘I can’t believe you talked me into coming to this,’ said Chantel. ‘I wish I was with my mum in Dubai.’

‘Just think of Damon Albarn,’ said Amy. ‘It will all be worth it.’

‘You, me and a druid wedding at Glastonbury next year,’ Spike told Chantel. She giggled. Amy rolled her eyes but Chantel was lapping it up. ‘I’ll be back from Ibiza by then.’

‘I’d love to go to Ibiza,’ said Chantel. The girls were sitting in the chill-out tent a bit the worse for wear, and Spike had zoned in on Chantel. Handsome, probably fifteen years their senior and with dirty blond dreadlocks and a sunburn that had faded to a deep browny-red, he exuded confidence and stank of weed. Chantel was smitten.

‘Tell me your business plan again,’ said Amy.

‘T-shirts,’ replied Spike. ‘With slogans. Clubbers will love them. I’ll make my fortune.’ He paused. ‘But it’s not about the money,’ he added, as quickly as his slow drawl could manage. ‘It’s about the experience.’

‘I think it sounds amazing,’ said Chantel. ‘I’ve never been abroad.’

‘Yes you have,’ said Amy. ‘We went on that school trip to France when we were eleven. We saw the Bayeux Tapestry, remember?’

Spike laughed and Chantel scowled at Amy. ‘I’d love to go to Ibiza,’ said Chantel.

‘Come with me,’ said Spike. Chantel giggled again and Amy saw his hand was wrapped proprietorially around her friend’s thigh.

‘We should find the others,’ said Amy, standing up.

‘I’m happy here,’ said Chantel.

‘It’s getting late,’ argued Amy.

‘You go,’ said Chantel. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll stay,’ said Amy.

‘No, you go,’ said Chantel, her voice insistent. ‘Find Tim.’

‘I’ll take care of your friend,’ said Spike, fishing a silver tin from his pocket.

Chantel grinned. ‘Catch you later, Amy,’ she said. ‘Don’t wait up.’

By the time Chantel got back to their tent the next day, it was gone noon. She grinned at Amy again. ‘You smell weird,’ said Amy. ‘Let’s find the showers.’ But when they saw the showers on offer, they decided they were not that desperate. Then at Tesco, Chantel had a brainwave and now here they were, enacting their plan.

‘You guys are worse than Tim and his quiche,’ complained Simon. Amy poured water over Chantel’s hair from a giant Evian bottle and massaged in shampoo. ‘This is not the festival spirit. You’re meant to be roughing it.’

‘It’s shampoo and conditioner in one,’ replied Chantel. ‘We are roughing it.’

‘You’re meant to have greasy hair and stink,’ insisted Simon.

‘I think it’s hot,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll wash the rest of you, Amy.’

‘We’ve got wet wipes for everywhere else,’ Chantel told him, through a mop of wet hair. ‘Before you get excited.’

‘Mouth closed,’ said Amy, as she dowsed Chantel’s head in water. ‘All done,’ she said. ‘Salon perfect.’

‘Maybe I should have left my hair dirty,’ said Chantel, producing a towel from her suitcase. ‘I could get dreadlocks, like Spike.’

‘And eight piercings, like Spike?’ asked Amy.

‘Nine piercings,’ corrected Chantel. ‘There’s a secret one.’ She grinned.

‘Spike smells funny,’ said Amy.

‘We all smell funny,’ said Chantel. ‘It’s a festival.’

Tim glanced at his phone. ‘The rest of the band are checking out the audio. Come on, Simon.’ They got up to leave. ‘Not sure if we’ll make it back before the gig. Nine p.m., Bacardi tent.’

‘We’ll be there,’ said Amy.

‘With clean hair,’ added Chantel. ‘And straighteners.’

‘And Spike,’ said Amy, rolling her eyes.

Amy stood at the very front. It was a good thing that she and Chantel had got there early. It was packed. She’d barely heard the acts before Tim’s band, she was so nervous on his behalf. She glanced at the sea of people behind her. This was the biggest gig that Tim’s band had ever had.

The boys came on stage to screams from the audience. They’d been unlikely to have heard