Do You Remember the First Time?

you out the house like that?’ said my mother.
    ‘No, Mrs S.’ Stanzi held up a bag. ‘I’ve got a jumper in here. That’s what I was wearing when I left.’
    ‘Well, you’ll need it. You’ll catch your death.’
    Stanzi looked at me in horror. ‘You not ready? You want, what? A white dressing room with lilies, like Jennifer Lopez?’
    ‘Yeah,’ I said, desperately stalling for time. What on earth was she talking about? I already had too much in my head. God, I had to see Ol. ‘Want to come and help me get ready?’
    ‘But we’ve got to get there early! To get down the front!’ Stanzi’s face was a picture of frustration.
    ‘I know. I’ll be quick, I promise.’
    ‘Mrs S, can you make her hurry up?’
    ‘I’m afraid I thought the fact that Darvel was waiting for you would be enough.’
    ‘Darius, Mrs S,’ she tutted. ‘It’s Persian. He’s descended from a long line of kings. And doctors. It’s a very good combination.’
    ‘We’re going to see Darius?’ I exclaimed, before I could help myself.
    ‘Well, yeeaahhh,’ said Stanzi. ‘I thought for a moment you’d forgotten.’
    I was swept up in Stanzi world and I let myself get carried along. Music was easier, at the moment, than thinking about anything else.
    I’d forgotten what gigs were like, I really had. A gig to me is somewhere, probably seated, melodic folk rock. You turn up late, miss the support, get yourself a gin and tonic and settle back for some mellow enjoyment and try not to let your boyfriend tapping out of tune annoy you so much.
    That’s not gigging. This was gigging. I larded on Sophie Ellis Bextor-style makeup (‘Wow, you’ve got really good at putting on makeup,’ said Stanzi), and wore a push-up bra (my breasts really were still practically nonexistent) and a little pink tanktop with a slashed V at the top, then a little denim miniskirt. I twirled in the mirror. I looked like my fantasy self, my best-looking self, the one I had to scrunch up my face to see. Why, then, was my diary full of complaints and moans?
    ‘You think you are very beautiful, huh?’ said Stanzi.
    ‘Yup,’ I said.
    ‘You going to get off with Darius?’
    ‘I’m going to turn him down.’
    We both giggled.
    ‘Are you lovely ladies finished in there?’ came my dad’s voice. ‘Because there’s a pop star who won’t stop calling the house and begging you two to come to his concert.’
    ‘It’s not a concert, Mr S,’ said Stanzi, opening the door. ‘It’s a gig.’
    My dad laughed.
    ‘He’ll only be bloody miming, won’t he? It’s not even a show. Maybe you should just stay home and watch the video.’
    Stanzi’s face was suddenly aflame.
    ‘That is NOT TRUE. Darius sings and writes all his own songs. And we’re going to be his fans for ever.’
    ‘He’s only teasing you,’ I said, hitting her lightly on the shoulder. ‘And it doesn’t really matter. As long as we like him, that’s all that counts.’
    ‘Good God, Joyce, our Flora just said something sensible.’ He looked at my mother with a ‘can-we-make-up?’ expression, comically scratching his head. My mother looked through him as if he hadn’t said anything. I wanted to shout at her: ‘MUM! You don’t know what he’s going to do.’
    ‘ Please , Joyce’ he said. ‘Could you cut it? Just for tonight? It’s the girls’ big night.’
    Stanzi and I looked at each other and shuffled our feet.
    ‘Yeah, stop it, you two,’ I said.
    ‘OK, OK,’ said my mum. ‘Have fun, everyone.’
    ‘Stop it, everyone!’ commanded Stanzi. ‘If we don’t go now I’m going to DIE.’
    Any thoughts I might have had about being a tad underdressed were dispelled when we got to Earls Court. There had to be five thousand teenage minxes there, milling about inside. In fact, we were verging on the oldest. Lots were there with their parents, dragging baby sisters in tow, giving the thing the weird aura of a monster creche. Pink fuzzy Deely-boppers appeared to be back, I noticed.
    We, however, quickly dumped my dad at the front gate so he didn’t have to come in with us and we could make it look as if we’d travelled over on our own. ‘I’ll just wait for you,’ said my dad, taking out his Evening Standard .
    ‘Dad, it’ll be hours. Why don’t you go home … surprise Mum and take her a fish supper or something?’
    He looked at me. ‘Your mother never eats chips.’
    ‘She loves chips, though. She’d really like it. Please, Dad. Go on.’
    He thought it over