Bold as Love (7 page)

‘That wouldn’t be hard. But.’ She was lost for words. Unlike the Adjuvants, spouting radical ideas with one eye in the mirror, there was something un-self-regarding in the Ax that made his obsession more embarassing than funny. She wanted to save him from himself.

He looked at her, narrow-eyed: off on his own angle. ‘What d’you make of Pigsty?’

‘He’s genuine,’ said Fiorinda, immediately. ‘He’s not putting it on for the punters, which is what I assumed before I met him. He’s just what he makes himself out to be. The kind of crass, stupid, self-satisfied libertarian bastard who would bugger a five year old in the name of free love.’

‘Nothing wrong with buggering a five year old,’ said Ax, in his
eat the unemployed
voice. ‘If the kid’s having a good time, whose business is it.’

‘Exactly. Yeah, you got it. That’s Pigsty.’

They laughed. ‘But we’ll keep our opinion to ourselves.’

The suits adored the Big Pig: so the rest of them were already drawn into this complicity. Fiorinda nodded, wondering why
she
would keep her opinion to herself. Why was she getting involved in this thing? Maybe it was a good career move. Maybe it filled a horrible blank.

She had been lent a manky sleeping bag. There was a proper bed made up for Ax on the couch, with a duvet and sheets. He gallantly offered it. Fiorinda counter-offered that they could share.

‘Yeah, okay,’ said Ax. ‘Thanks.’

She glanced at the yellow ribbon, which he was also wearing today, and made a pragmatic decision, based on the irritating alternative of lying there wondering if he was going to make a move. The ribbon worked fairly well, but it was asking a lot to expect it to function when you were sharing a bed with someone you hardly knew. ‘If you like, we can do sex.’

‘You sure that would be okay?’

‘No problem. Ribbon just means you’re not looking for it, far as I’m concerned. I don’t mind, honest.’

‘Right. I’ll see if I’ve got a condom.’

‘If you want. I don’t care. I’m clean, and I’m not going to get pregnant on you. They gave me the injection in hospital when—’ She stopped, but had already gone too far. ‘When I had the baby,’ she finished, casually.

‘You had a kid, oh, yeah, I heard that.’

‘Not any more. It…he died.’

‘Well,’ said Ax, after a moment, ‘that was a bad break.’ He reached out, touching her for the first time, and stroked back a lock of the red curls that tumbled round her face. ‘You’ve had hard times, I know. I very much admire the way you have come through them.’

She stared at him, like:
what weird language is this
?

‘Do you want that fuck?’

‘I’ll see about the condom,’ said Ax, hoping he wasn’t making a horrible mistake. But what he was doing felt right. He would go with it.

For Fiorinda it was okay, except that he turned out to be the considerate type, whereas she was not going to get aroused by him unless he broke into her when she was dry, the way her father used to do it. She couldn’t tell him this, and didn’t feel like faking. ‘I’m going to have to masturbate. Do you mind?’ ‘Why would I mind?’ said Ax, (sounding taken aback at finding himself in bed with a girl who said
masturbate
when she meant wank), ‘You do what feels good.’ Then the sex was fine. They did it four more times during the night: something neither of them had expected.

The Dissolution Festival at Reading unfolded its all-embracing programme. Rock bands rocked, circus troupes trouped, folkies folked, poets droned, stand-ups lacerated themselves and any fool else. Anything Celtic was violently heckled, in newborn English patriotic feeling.
Aoxomoxoa and the Heads
headlined to the usual huge, adoring, laddish crowd. The plan for bussing artists around the country to other sites did not happen, owing to crisis conditions and economic meltdown. A secret gang of personal transport wreckers haunted the parking fields, leaving every morning a fresh swathe of terminally immobilised vehicles that were a real hassle to deal with.

Fiorinda and DARK did a miserable set on Red Stage, which was mainstage, in the rain at lunchtime. Everything went wrong, and such few people as happened to be drifting around pretty well ignored them. The next night they were indoors at the Green Room. Things were tense. They were all severely drunk, and very shaken by their Red Stage failure. Fil Slattery and Gauri Mostel were sullen, Cafren Free silently suicidal. Charm was in a savage bad temper, and Tom Okopie the bassist was too smashed to be his usual steadying influence. Added to this it turned out they had a real crowd, not hardcore DARK fans but actual punters who had heard the buzz, and maybe even bought the album. DARK were famous (relatively speaking) for fucking-up royally whenever people looked like liking them. It could have been a disaster. Instead they flipped into a state of high energy and played like demons, Fiorinda’s pure, ferocious vocals and wild guitar taking everything by storm. She was
radiating.
So much so that, with the set two thirds done, she looked around, caught everybody’s eye, and launched them, unilaterally, into ‘Stonecold’—her own teenage vagrant anthem, and a killer tune, which Charm had axed from the set. She couldn’t stop herself.

‘Stonecold’ was huge, the crowd loved it. Charm went along with the coup, face like thunder, until the end of the song. Then she came over, glaring like a demented stoat, not quite steady on the feet, and said something audible and sarcastic to her vocalist, to the effect, Fiorinda’s shitful Megastar Dad would be proud of her dirty tactics—

Charm never mentioned the fact that the Megastar Dad had allegedly got his twelve year old daughter pregnant. Otherwise it was no holds barred, ever since she’d found out who Fiorinda’s father was.

Aoxomoxoa and the Heads were down in the mosh, breaking the celebs/punters barrier with their usual aplomb. They had a grandstand view of what happened next: the incandescent teenager in her sparkly blue party dress, squaring up to the queen of Northern Radical Dyke Rock. Charm all mean and nasty, no surprise… But though Fiorinda may dress like the ballerina on the musical box, and may look fragile, she stands an easy five foot five in her army boots, which gives her a couple of inches over Charm; and she’s not afraid to make herself useful. Doesn’t let the height disparity worry her: hauls off and lands the demented stoat a clip that sends Charm flying, guitar howling, into a stack of amps—

‘Wooeee!’ yelled Sage, punching the air, ‘That’s my girl!’

They removed themselves from the scene, however, during the stage invasion that followed. Shame to leave a good ruckus, but as George said, they’d be doing the kid no favours, giving their seal of approval to that sort of unladylike behaviour.

DARK had an impromptu debriefing, when they’d been hustled off. They hardly bothered with the latest incident, but cut straight to the chase, the real problem, the power struggle. ‘This is my fucking band,’ yelled Charm. ‘I say what goes on the set list and that’s—’

‘Look,’ said Fiorinda, biting back tears of rage and despair. ‘Don’t be such a brainless shit. Okay, I wrote it, I’m sorry. It isn’t relevant who wrote it. “Stonecold”
works
for us.’

‘Fuck that
!’ screamed Charm, eyes popping. ‘Who’s “us”
princess
? You want the same crap megabucks stadium success as your dad, and DARK is not going that way!’

‘I want us to get somewhere,’ shouted Fiorinda defiantly. ‘Don’t you?’

‘FUCK YOU, daddy’s girl—’

‘You’re scared, Charm. You can’t stand the heat.’

‘I can’t stand this,’ muttered Cafren Free, pale blonde head in her hands.

Tom stayed with Fiorinda when everyone else went off to the bus. Plump, black, cuddly Tom had always been nice to Fio, far as rock and roll feudalism allowed. Don’t let Charm get to you, he told her earnestly. It’s right-on, constant fuck-ups, constan’ revolution, freedom to flail, that’s what DARK’s about, proves the band’s integriry… But Tom was totally pissed and he was Cafren’s boyfriend. He couldn’t really be Fiorinda’s ally. Tom belonged to Cafren, DARK belonged to Charm Dudley, and Fiorinda had no place to lay her head.

She returned to the van, where she found Sage alone, and incredibly unsympathetic. He’d seen the whole thing, and hadn’t even come backstage to back her up. What d’you expect, he said. You were fantastic, but it’s not going to get you nowhere at this fucking rate. You’re too big for Charm, she knows it, but she’s not going to hand you her band on a plate. Give her some space, stupid brat. He told her she ought to pack in the public violence or take up mud-wrestling,
which was an absolute fucking cheek
, coming from him. Advised her she was going to have a shit of a hangover, and left on some sexual prowl or other. She crawled into the annexe and lay there spinning, hating everyone, too proud to cry herself to sleep.

Notoriety sometimes pays. Fiorinda snagged an invitation to do a solo gig at the Best of the Fest club, a ‘smoky late night cabaret’: where she went down a treat. She stayed away from DARK, but went to a couple more meetings in Whitehall, and spent a couple more nights at the Snake Eyes house. One chilly August morning, when the two weeks of the Festival were nearly over, she met Ax in the arena. They were both queuing to buy breakfast from a van. He was wearing that leather coat, and had a guitar case slung over his shoulder: which made her smile. See Ax Preston, see guitar.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Fio. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were staying in London.’

‘I am, but the
Chosen
played the Blue Lagoon last night.’

‘How was it?’

‘Not bad.’

He had refused to play the
Jerusalem
solo for them. And the crowd went crazy, but he still refused to play it…the howling cascades of notes singing in his head, in his fingers, in his balls, in the muscles of his forearms: but he knew it was right not to be persuaded. Better withhold, deny yourself the quick hit. He’d been thinking
well, they’re not watching the telly now,
(though millions
were
watching, punters who were scared of the Fest of Dissolution’s rep, but were still riding this wave): which had annoyed him. He didn’t want to fall into the trap of trying to impress this girl. It would be doubly stupid in her case, because Fio did not want to be impressed. It wouldn’t be like a bunch of roses if he did something she admired, it would just piss her off. He wondered where she’d been, last night. He was not going to ask.

Keep things cool and friendly.

‘You next?’ said the Korean noodle man, with a smile of contempt. As usual at these things, all the catering people by now hated all their customers indiscriminately.

‘I’ll have the flat kind, dunno what you call ’em.’ He perused the list of fillings. ‘With the veg, ginger pickle, and seaweed.’ Fio bought a bowl of miso soup. They walked off together.

Ax was looking at his food in deep dismay.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Fuck. I thought seaweed meant that nice dry shredded cabbage.’

His noodles had been buried under a mound of steaming kelp, actual yards of slick, disgusting marine leather. ‘The bastard, he knew I didn’t know what he was talking about—’

‘So chuck it.’

‘I can’t do that. There’s no bin. I can’t chuck it on the ground. What d’you think this place would look like, if people just chucked stuff on the ground?’

Like it does, thought Fiorinda. ‘Don’t panic. I’ll have it.’

They did the transfer. Fiorinda burrowed in her underskirts and brought out the saltbox: balancing her biodegradable soupbowl deftly on her wrist while she opened it. ‘Want some?’

He frowned at the twinkling white powder. ‘Bit early for me, thanks.’

‘It’s salt.’

‘You’re going to put
salt
on seaweed and miso?’

‘I like salt. Anyway, seaweed doesn’t taste salty, it tastes of iodine.’

He’d been hoping for a chance to talk to her in a neutral context. He’d talked to everybody else, except that fucker Sage: just making himself known at this stage. But the times he’d been private with Fio he’d been sidetracked by the sexual opportunity. She wasn’t physically his type, and she was fucked up as hell, poor kid, but somehow he kept wanting more.

Maybe it was the challenge to his manhood. Getting Fiorinda to come wasn’t the problem, oh no. Getting Fiorinda to respond emotionally to sex: that was a project.

‘What about this Think Tank? I notice you’re still up for it.’

Fiorinda was hungry. The Festival of Dissolution had given up providing free food for its artists, and the government
perdiems
were useless. She was trying not to waste her cash reserves on stupid bodyfuel. She chewed kelp doggedly before she answered.

‘I think it’s obscurely addictive. Like watching a dull arthouse movie, that is somehow quirky enough to hold your attention. I suppose the media exposure has to be good.’

There had been a steady flow of attention. Pigsty was most in demand. Ax and Sage and Fiorinda were also popular, but media people were wary of Sage. He had no respect for them whatever, and could be murder to interview.

‘They like you, because of your accent.’

‘Mmm. I know. It cracks people up. They like you because you give good one-liners.’

‘And the dresses. The mediafolk like your dresses. So do I. That’s a good look.’

‘Thanks. It’s my one idea. I buy evening gowns from charity shops, and wear them on top of each other. It’s not original but it’s flashy: and cheap, as long as you’re fairly little and thin.’

‘The website’s crap though.’

Fiorinda hadn’t seen it. She shrugged, indifferently.

They ate and walked, catching the occasional nudge and glance from the sparse morning crowd. ‘A dull black and white movie. It’s a point of view. What’re your plans after the end of the Festival? You going back north with DARK?’

‘No,’ said Fiorinda, sorry he’d raised the subject. She’d been enjoying talking to someone who didn’t know about her plight. It made a nice change.

‘You could move in at Snake Eyes. Should be more space there soon.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here. The campground isn’t going to break up. A lot of people are planning on staying until Dissolution Day, that’s the idea. Our landlords are letting it happen, and the Thames Valley police aren’t going to interfere. They reckon we’ll float away of our own accord when the weather turns nasty. I expect they’re right.’