Remix. Part 33

The banner across the top of the screen says: GOSSIP SO HOT WE'RE BURNING YOU TWICE!!!

Seriously. Who writes this c.r.a.p?

And then: Adam Wexler or should that be s.e.xler?

Just the sight of his name is enough to close my throat so tight I can't even draw breath.

But then there's a picture of him. A fuzzy snap taken on a camera phone as he's sitting at a table in the sunshine with a girl. Kissing.

My lungs tourniquet as I see myself on screen.

There's an arrow pointing at on-screen me.

WHO'S THIS CUTIE?!

And then there's a shot of Wexler walking with me towards the Gold'ntone bus...

There's another helpful arrow.

Gold'ntone'S TOUR BUS...

Oh G.o.d.

This time there's a shot of me, falling out of the bus, my clothes dishevelled, hair all over the place, my bra strap slipped halfway down the arm with the ink. Then some text flashes up.

s.e.xY WEXY KNOWN FOR HIS FAN-FANCYING SCORES A HOTTIE.

BUT WHO IS SHE?.

The tension that's twisted my respiratory system into a halt snaps and suddenly I'm breathing fast and shallow. Why are they doing this?

"Ruby what...?" Stu reaches for me, but I push him out of the way so I can see the screen.

There I am. The stupid f.u.c.king photo that those girls took of me backstage.

"Is that you?" some boy near by asks.

"You. f.u.c.k off." Stu turns to point at whoever's talking.

"All right, mate. Not my fault your bird's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around-" Stu steps towards him, away from me, and that's my chance.

I run. Again. Always f.u.c.king running.

KAZ.

I try ringing her. Again and again and again, but it rings out each time.

Then I ring Lee, who isn't answering either, and I leave a slightly garbled message, the gist of which is, "Where is Ruby?"

I call my mum by accident and hang up and hope she won't notice the missed call.

I call Owen, who does answer, and I have to shout at him because of the noise in the background, until I give up and text him. My hands are shaking too much and Lauren takes the phone off me: Meet at the spot on the hill. Check Festblog explains the emergency.

Ruby will be hating this, people knowing her business...

Why didn't she tell me her business? But a nasty little voice that sounds a lot like Stuart Garside pipes up, Where were you last night when she needed you?

My breaths don't seem to be coming in properly and I need a second to calm down, asking Lauren to call Stu. I can't believe that I'm actually hoping she's with him.

"Stu? It's Lauren on Kaz's-" Lauren frowns. "Where is she now?"

RUBY.

I'm about to be sick as I catapult into the toilets. The nice ones down by the front of the stage that are a bit Porta-kabin-y. Only they're not so nice after a day and a half's use. The cubicle I cannoned into is coated in diarrhoea and I back out quickly. Not there.

"Yeah. You know there's a queue, yeah?"

I hadn't even registered the fact there was a queue.

"Sorry," I say quietly. "Thought I was going to be sick."

The feeling has gone presumably put off by the sight of what I was planning on being sick into.

"Yeah, sorry. But if you're not, yeah, there's still a queue."

I nod meekly and join the back of the four-person line. We shuffle forwards until I'm level with the sinks, where I study my arm in the mirrors. The girl who's washing her hands tells me my tattoo looks pretty. I think about the picture on the screens, how prominent my arm is in every single one of the shots with Wexler.

I've got to get it off.

KAZ.

Once we've all gathered together Stu too I take charge, sending Lee up to the Festblog tent to see if we can stop them posting it again she's sixteen, this can't be legal. Owen is going back to our camp in case Ruby's hiding there, and Anna and Dongle say they'll check the stalls. I ask Lauren and Parvati to check the two different girls' loos at the top of the hill. I'll go for the ones by the main stage.

When I turn to face Stu, I feel like crying. If I hadn't been so intent on blaming this on him, maybe Ruby would have had a chance to tell me the truth. Two days ago I wouldn't have believed it possible that Ruby Kalinski would not ring me immediately if she so much as spoke to Adam Wexler, let alone slept with him. How did we get like this?

"Why are you crying?" Stu looks at me fiercely. "Don't f.u.c.king fall apart now. This isn't about you or Lauren or Lee or me. It's about Ruby."

"I thought it was you I'm sorry," I say, but he shakes his head.

"Yeah, well, you made a mistake." And he turns up the hill to check the line of tents up there.

I suppose we all make mistakes it's how we deal with them that matters.

Maybe my biggest mistake was that I never let Stu deal with his in the first place.

37 * KISS WITH A FIST

RUBY.

The toilets have become less crowded as I stand, raking the flesh on my left arm, scrubbing and sobbing as the stains on my skin remain. My skin's red from the effort and my hand's numb from the cold, cold water.

"Come on." My voice is feeble, falling out of my mouth between dry sobs. "Just ... come ... off..."

I give up for a second, folding my arms across the sink and resting my head on them to let myself not-quite cry into the sc.u.mmy water.

There's a clump of feet on the steps to the cabin and I look up, hoping someone has come to rescue me.

But it's a stranger one, two, three of them and I lay my head back down across my wrists, wondering whether I have the energy to wash any more when it's all so pointless. The girls go into the cubicles behind me and I tune into their conversation as it bounces across the doors.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. Can't believe that, can you?"

"We could totally have got backstage if that bouncer hadn't been gay. Flash of the t.i.ts, cheeky kiss."

"I did my best!"

"How do you think she got back there?"

"I don't know. Maybe she had a pa.s.s?"

There's a flush behind me and one of the girls emerges to wash her hands in the sink next to mine. I feel like telling her that going backstage isn't all it's cracked up to be, but it would be a little weird to crash their conversation.

I stand up and brace my arms on the sink, breathing in and looking at my face in the mirror.

The girl next to me is looking at my reflection and I catch her eye and give her a smile, but she just frowns and glances over her shoulder at her friend who's come out of the far stall. I close my eyes and breathe some more, trying to imagine that the air I'm taking in is making me stronger, that after thirty breaths I will be able to leave the toilet and go find Kaz or Lee or Stu.

I sense someone standing closer than necessary and open my eyes to give whichever girl it is a friendly smile.

She does not smile back. Her mouth and eyes are like three tight little lines slashed in the flesh of her face as she stares at me.

At my arm.

Only then do I realize her friend's on the other side of me, frowning at my reflection.

"Are you the girl who s.h.a.gged Adam Wexler?"

"Oh my G.o.d, is that her?" shouts the third friend, still sorting herself out in the middle cubicle.

"Yes. It's her," I call out with a smile, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. The girls out here resist the lift and just stare at me some more. I turn away from the sink and edge further down the cabin, where there's a towel. The two girls follow my progress, eyes moving like creepy haunted-house paintings.

I decide to ignore them. As soon as their friend comes out, they will leave and then so will I. All of a sudden I don't feel that being on my own in the toilets is as safe as being out in the crowd.

There's a flush and the friend emerges. She's taller than the other two pretty in a conventional, healthy, would-be-a-cheerleader-but-only-plays-netball kind of way. Judging by the cut of her vest and the arch of her back, she's the one who tried her best with the allegedly gay bouncer. Like her friends, she shows no shame in staring at me as I carefully dry my hands on the soggy towel looped from the dispenser. It's like being at school.

"What was he like?"

I glance nervously at Did My Best. "Umm ... I don't know."

"Wasted, were you?" The first girl. Her eyes are wider now, but her mouth is still an angry little line that she barely opens to talk.

"No." I don't know how to handle this. "Look, I don't want to talk about it."

"So it was s.h.i.t?"

One of the others cuts in. "I don't believe you. There's no way Adam Wexler would be s.h.i.t in bed."

"I didn't-"

"So you were s.h.i.t?"

"No, I-" Actually, what do I care? It's not like I'm trying to sell my s.e.x services to them.

"Did he have a big one?"