Speeding down the M40 just after lunch the following day, I'm glad I had the forethought to cut myself off the wine after Michael told me about the interview today. Not gonna lie though, a large glass of Chardonnay would do wonders for my nerves right now.
Despite Lillie's attempts to piss me off last night, the party was a rousing success! I even got the joy of witnessing one of her many children puking what looked like luminous pink bile all over her prissy purple dress after he accidentally gotta hold of one of the vodka jellies, undoubtedly my highlight. All kidding aside though, mum and dad had a great time, and that was the main thing. I could have lived without the rousing rendition of 'I got you babe' that they decided to put on after a few too many drinks whilst groping at each other like teenagers on the small stage, seriously, no child needs to see her parents behaving that way. On the plus side, I did manage to capture it all on video, so that'll be a lovely treat to embarrass them with at the next family shindig.
I finally fell into bed at around three this morning, after quickly tearing down all the decorations and popping the huge piles of peach and cream balloons with a steak knife which was quite therapeutic actually. Maybe I'll swap my weekly attempts at yoga, which mostly end with me falling flat on my face whilst trying to do some kind of downward dog pose, for balloon popping in future.
It's now nearly one, and I have three hours to get my arse to the Genting Arena in Birmingham, find Clark, and prepare myself for this interview. I'm practically positive I don't have half of what I need with me if I do manage to get this job and need to be ready to jet off around the planet though, I threw a few sets of underwear into my scratched and scraped up old suitcase this morning along with a couple of pairs of jeans and a few random T-shirts, oh! and a couple of dresses are lying on the back seats too, a product of an afterthought as I was running out the door this morning, just in case I need to look a bit more presentable at any point. Whilst gulping down a lukewarm cup of tea that I kept forgetting about whilst I was packing, I quickly downloaded Harry Styles album to my phone and hit the road after a rather large fry up, which I had hoped would settle the swarm of butterflies floating about in my stomach, but so far, no such luck.
I've got to admit, this guys album is astounding, and nothing like I expected. I can't say I really know much about Harry Styles, or any of the One Direction boys for that matter, having always been more of a rock music fan than a pop one. But his album has a bit of everything on it, and it's undoubtedly feeding my inner rock chick who's happily being reminded of some of her all-time favourite bands as I bop along in my seat. There are some real rock anthems on it, not least a track called Sign of the Times, which I listened to once, then immediately repeated as I couldn't get my head around the idea that this was written and performed by the curly-headed little boy I remember watching on Xfactor years ago, crooning Stevie Wonders 'Isn't she lovely' and winning everyone over with his cheeky smile.
The album is peppered with a mixture of ballads and a couple of really energetic numbers, like Only Angel and Kiwi that both have me bouncing around in my chair, garnering some rather odd looks from the traffic flowing along beside me as I make my way down the motorway. Although why on earth he called a song about some chick having a baby 'Kiwi' I'll never know. Maybe I'll ask him if I'm ever in a position to. As the closing track to his debut flows through the car speakers, I almost manage to forget for a moment that I am doing seventy in the fast lane as his deep, melodic, soothing voice almost whispers the heart-wrenchingly honest lyrics. That's got to take some balls to sing live, I think to myself as I finally see a sign that reads 'Birmingham thirty-five miles' and restart the album for one final listen before I reach my destination.
Pulling up into the arena parking lot is a surreal experience. Even though the doors aren't scheduled to open for another three and a half hours, the car park is already jam-packed with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. I spot several groups of young women, probably a little younger than me but not by much, changing into their newly purchased merchandise emblazoned with Harry's face and some kind of motto in the shadows behind their cars. A really bored looking dad who looks like he'd rather be getting his toenails pulled out one by one than tolerating the ear-splitting screams of his kids as he battles with them to just stay in the car so he can hop out and have a cigarette in peace. And one particularly harassed looking mum dragging her feet behind two teenage girls who are scolding her for getting them here so late... late? It's barely three o'clock! But as I round a corner, I suddenly understand. Outside the entrance to the arena is a copious row of dis-guarded camping tents, whilst a few feet away in a barricaded queue line, several hundred of Harry's die-hard fans lounge about the ground, all snuggled up in their fluffy white duvets, playing songs from his album and One Directions back catalogue on their phones and screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs.
I've never really 'got' fan culture.. sure there are artists that I absolutely adore, and I've been to more than my fair share of concerts. Still, I've never felt the need to know what that artist is up to once they leave the stage, who they're sleeping with, what car they drive, what their favourite hobby is are just things that have never interested me. The only thing I ever really pay any attention to is the music and the lyrics. I wonder if that's some weird profound subconscious idea that if I give these people their privacy now, the gods might smile down on me and allow me the same level of respect if/when I ever get my big break, fairly certain I'd prefer it if everyone around me didn't know every single detail of my personal life, but I guess, for someone like Harry, who's been in the public eye since he was spotty teen, that ship has long since sailed.
"Well look at you all grown up!" Clarks' voice calls out to me from over my shoulder. Evidently, he has come out of some hidden side door somewhere as there's no way he'd make it past the throngs of women at the entrance.
"I know, I know, I got old! Amazing, isn't it?" I say dryly as we greet each other in an awkward one-armed hug. Clark is one of my brothers oldest friends. He's known me pretty much since the day I was born and, along with all my brothers other mates, he still views me as the little ten-year-old with her long mousy brown pigtails, begging them to take me with them when they headed off to the local park. Michael later explained to me that, rather than play on the swings, which I had assumed was their reason for hanging out there as, next to my guitar, swings were my life at that age. That their park trips generally consisted of smoking weed in the corner of a field whilst they passed around cheap cans of white lightning, and someone threw up in a bush. This slightly dampened the resentment I had felt all those years when I thought he was making me stay home just because he was embarrassed by me, but only slightly, as I still could have swung whilst they got stoned, I wouldn't have cared, or even realised what they were up to as long as I got to swing. Last time I saw Clark was at Michael's thirtieth birthday party over three years ago now, but it's hardly like I was still a child then, I'd long since grown out of my pigtails.
"You ready for this?"Clark asks me with a broad smile as he leads me around the back of the giant arena towards a nondescript metal door that has 'Staff only' written on it in thick black ink.
"Given that I've had less than twenty-four hours to prepare for what could be a life-changing job interview.. I'm gonna go with no." I tease him as we make our way down a thin darkened corridor and into the main arena where a considerable amount of people are rushing back and forth putting together what looks to be an enormous circular stage. Complete with matching hanging screen above at one end of the arena and a smaller square stage further back. He leads me up what feels like a million flights of stairs to my tired legs which still haven't entirely straightened out after the two and a half-hour drive up from Surrey, and up into the nosebleed section before plonking himself down heavily on one of the soft folding seats and throwing his feet up on to the one in front of him casually crossing his ankles.
Mirroring his actions, I take a seat beside him and greedily sip on the extra-large latte I picked up at Starbucks on my way in here as I try and take in my surroundings. I've been in plenty of arenas, in fact, I was lucky enough to watch The Eagles in this very one back in 2014, but I've never been in one that's still being set up for a show. I am utterly entranced watching the tiny little figures rushing back and forth below me. Their arms full of wires and duct tape and what I assume to be large pieces of the stage being supported between several people and screwed tightly into place.
"You'll be 'right," Clark says in his cockney accent, giving me a reassuring pat on the thigh "You'll be meeting with Paul, he's the tour manager and an all-round good bloke. Just convince him you're a hard worker who's not afraid to get her hands dirty or break a nail, and he'll snatch you up, they really are desperate!" Clark continues, and I shoot him a withering look.
"Gee thanks.." I say sarcastically, although I suppose I shouldn't complain if they are desperate enough to take on the skinny girl with no upper body strength to speak of and absolutely zero experience in this crazy world of theirs
"Ahh, you know what I mean. Anyways Paul'll be easy enough. Jeff, on the other hand, might be a bit harder to win over. Do yourself, and me a favour and don't mention that you're a singer. If Jeff gets even a whiff of the idea that you might be hoping to further your own career by working with us, you'll be back in Surrey before you can sneeze."
"Good to know. But my CV has next to nothing on it barring singing gigs. There was that summer I spent working in Greggs.. but that's kinda it" I tell Clark, which seems to amuse him as he lets out a loud booming laugh which carries easily across the empty arena and causes more than one head to snap up and search for the source of the sound.
"Paul loves Greggs! It's his kryptonite. Should have told you to bring him a Steak Bake or a yum yum, he'd have been putty in your hands" Clark says, throwing a quick glance at my small hands, with their slightly chipped bright pink nails leftover from my gig on Friday night and raising an eyebrow. "You aren't afraid to break a nail, right?" he asks so sincerely that I let out my own much quieter giggle.
"God, no!" I say, bending back one of the press on nails until the glue peels away and it pops off my finger, I raise my hand in front of his face and wave my bare nail around so he can see that it's bitten to the quick and there's really nothing of it for me to break
"Ahh good girl, had me worried for a minute there!" He smiles back happily
"And I suppose I could have stopped off and picked up a pasty on my way here if you'd told me, but it's been like... five years since I worked there," I tell him, surprising myself, wow has it really been that long since I had a regular job? I wonder how I'll cope with having to answer to the other more senior crew members and work regular hours. Being self-employed certainly has its perks. One of which is that I rarely work for longer than a couple of hours a night, unless you count the travelling of course, which somehow, no one ever does.
Clark raises his fingers to his temple in a weird kind of salute to some guy with an immensely long and thick ginger beard who's staring up at us from near the sound engineers desk and is clearly trying to get his attention, before struggling to his feet.
"Duty calls. Honestly kiddo, you'll do right. C'mon, it's nearly four. Let's take you backstage" He says and starts to rewind his way down the hundreds of stairs, off in search of these men I need to impress somehow if I want to become part of this world.