Warhol's Prophecy

103

HAILEY COULDN’T HELP but think how lacking in genuine VIPs the VIP stand was.

There were lots of music-industry people, friends of James Marsh, business associates, local dignitaries – but precious little to satisfy the hordes of celebrity-spotters who had gathered close to the rear of the stand, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone even remotely recognizable.

As another limo drew up and disgorged its faceless passengers, Hailey saw one watching girl shake her head in irritation.

The area behind the makeshift stand had been roped off, its perimeter patrolled by enormous men in yellow jackets with SHOWSEC stencilled on them. Hailey had watched the desultory dribble of nobodies entering the VIP stand, and thought that the security men might be better employed elsewhere. It didn’t seem likely that the arrival of two more local councillors was going to test their crowd-handling abilities.

Hailey smiled dutifully as she showed the two councillors to their seats in the makeshift stand, hearing the older of the two men complaining about the sound from the stage.

One of the support bands was in the middle of its set, and was meeting with nothing short of indifference from the waiting crowd. Still, Hailey reasoned, indifference was better than the hail of urine-filled plastic bottles that had accompanied the departure of the first support band. The lead singer had dashed back and forth across the stage looking for hands to slap, but had received only an apple core on the back of his head for his trouble.

The joys of being in a support slot, thought Hailey.

She gazed across the stand itself, which was already three-quarters full.

Rob and Becky were sitting in the front row, Becky mesmerized by the sight of the huge crowd and by the spectacle before her.

Rob spotted Hailey and waved. Then he pointed at Becky and held up one thumb.

Hailey waved back.

She saw several more cars approaching, and went over to meet them.

Nicholas Barber stepped out of the first. The MP nodded a greeting and sniffed the air.

‘The smell of the great unwashed,’ he sneered, and looked around at some of the main crowd.

‘Good of you to come, Mr Barber,’ Hailey said, trying to disguise the irritation she felt.

She showed him quickly to his seat, and returned to greet the next two cars.

At last the watching celebrity-spotters raised a few cheers. Jenny Kenton climbed out of the first car, closely followed by three other young women.

All wives and girlfriends of the band, Hailey assumed. One of them, the bass-player’s girlfriend, had just been given a job on an early-morning TV show and she was revelling in her new-found fame.

Hailey thought how easy it was for these women: famous, rich partners and a jet-set lifestyle. They were famous themselves for nothing else other than the fact they were sleeping with celebrities. It was either amusing or nauseating, depending on your view.

‘It’s a bit tacky, isn’t it?’ said Jenny Kenton as she climbed the stairs to the platform.

‘Well, it’s not the Hollywood Bowl, but then Water-hole aren’t the Beatles, are they?’ Hailey said, smiling. ‘As much as they’d like to think they are.’

Jenny Kenton glared furiously at her.

‘You’re the one who does the publicity for Marsh, aren’t you?’ she sneered. ‘His personal assistant?’

‘Nice to see I made an impression,’ Hailey told her.

Jenny Kenton pushed past her towards the seat Hailey indicated.

‘Bitch,’ Hailey whispered under her breath.

The other women followed and seated themselves.

Hailey heard a great roar and looked up to see that the support band were now leaving the stage.

She checked her watch. Another forty minutes and the helicopter carrying Waterhole would begin its first swoop over the crowd.

The guest cars continued to arrive.