Page 5 of Rock Giant
“That’s who Curtis Nash is engaged too?”
“She’s all tits and arse and not in a good way.”
She’d heard it all.Mostly let it wash over her.It was that or dissolve into a puddle of anxieties.Six months ago, nobody even knew who Curtis Nash or the Ghost Boys were and the shape of his girlfriend hadn’t mattered to anyone.
The guy began talking into his radio.He repeated her name.Good, he was doing his job rather than just discounting her.
It was crazy how fast everything had changed.How one miserable night on a farm in rural Valencia had birthed something so significant, and all because a bunch of fruit-picking nomads had saved her from an over-zesty orange merchant and wound up jamming together in a communal camping barn.
As the sole non-musical participant that night—she played about as well as Bob Dylan sang—she’d become their de facto manager.Well, more like a booking and merchandising assistant.She’d been a whizz at designing gig posters and merch.And zines.She’d created a whole string of them, although only the first three issues made it to print, because the word about them spread fast and their audiences kept on doubling in size.
They’d been playing together six weeks when Harry Storm swooped in and bound them all up in contracts.All of them except her.Girlfriends weren’t part of the package deal.Future merchandising would be outsourced.Thank you.Goodbye.
The guys had all been shipped back to England to a recording studio the moment the contract ink was dry, leaving her to see out the rest of the picking season alone.She’d mourned the loss, convinced that the distance would put an end to their relationship.Then Nash had only gone and surprised her with a goddamned ring.Paid for it with his very first royalty cheque and had written, with a lot of help, a song that referenced it that was still dancing up and down the Spotify top ten.
The engagement ring glittered on her finger as she waited on security making their necessary checks.She didn’t often wear it that way.Mostly, she kept it on a chain around her neck.It always felt alien on her finger and stressed her out over the possibility of losing it.
Plus, it caught on things, like all the time.
“Yes, she’s here with three cats,” the site official said into his radio.He turned to her.“Someone’s going to come and collect you, but you’re not supposed to have pets onsite.Guide dogs only.”
She shrugged.What was she supposed to do?Abandon them at the gate?“They go everywhere with me.”
The look she got in return made it clear if he hadn’t already branded her a crazy cat lady he had now.She’d tried the emotional support line before.It never washed, even though it was true.Those cuties were her family.
Thirty seconds later, a guy in a golf buggy arrived.“You Jodi Castle?”he asked, not bothering to get out from behind the wheel.“Climb in.You can put your luggage in the back.I’m to take you to the band enclosure.”
She struggled with the weight of her rucksack.
“What have you got in there, a tent?”
As a matter of fact, she did.For two reasons.She’d learned not to rely on others for her well-being.That included a guaranteed bed beside her fiancé.Secondly, it was where she lived, as in it was her permanent abode.Not everybody had the luxury of bricks and mortar.She’d been pitched in a patch of woodland just off the M62 until yesterday.Last night, she’d slept in the train station waiting room.Tonight, would hopefully be a bit more comfortable, although if the guys were to be believed, tour bus bunks left much to be desired.
Nash didn’t like it, of course.Her roaming.Right after he’d put that rock on her finger, he’d insisted she move in with him and advocated for a ceremonial burning of her tent.She’d said she’d feel trapped if she did that.Poor Nash, he meant well, really wanted to do his best for her, but he didn’t really understand where she’d come from.He thought her “troubles” were down to the episode in Valencia.It was hardly his fault; all she’d told him about her family was that she wasn’t in touch with them anymore.
She suspected he was secretly pleased that he hadn’t been obliged to do a meet and greet with them or ask her dad’s permission to wed his daughter.
Did people even still do that?She supposed some did.The notion kind of revolted her.Smacked too much of being someone’s property, and she wasn’t and would never be that.Even if it meant humping her home around on her back.
Of course, nothing was as straightforward as it ought to have been.Golf man deposited her right by the Ghost Boys tour bus and immediately whizzed off, at which point the band’s security, a snotty cow she didn’t recognise, informed her she’d have to wait until one of the band confirmed her identify before letting her on the bus.This, despite the lanyard the bitch was holding with her name and picture on it.
Jodi: They won’t let me on the bus.
Nash: Who won’t?
Jodi: Your security.Not until you’ve vouched for me in person.
Nash: WTF.Okay, soz.Gonna be a while yet.Hopefully not too long though.Maybe get a brew somewhere?
Jodi: Yeah.I’ll do that.Xx
With only two pounds thirty-seven in her pocket buying a drink was out of the question.It might have got her a drink on the high street, but the festival mark-up was eye-watering.Who the fuck paid nearly seven quid for a cuppa?Seemed that if she wanted a brew, she was going to have to make one for herself.
Jodi found herself a pitch in a quiet corner of the enclosure that no one else fancied, probably because it bordered both the recycling bins and a line of Portaloos.Also, it wasn’t a very big space, but then, she didn’t have a very big tent.If any of the bands were camping, they were doing so in style.The field was predominantly buses, along with an assortment of vans; everything from big white transits to ancient VW campervans.There were various pavilions scattered about too, clearly intended as chill out zones rather than for sleeping.Seemed, given that even the well-known acts had opted for sleeping aboard their buses rather than under canvas, that tour bus bunks weren’t really so bad.Maybe Nash had just been thinking about how squashed up they’d be if they were sharing.
He turned up four hours later with a stupid grin on his face, wearing a shirt that looked like something someone’s nan would own.It was off white, an odd choice for a field, and striped with muddy orange and black lines.Severely smudged eyeliner circled both his eyes, and he was wearing jeans that did absolutely nothing for his delicious butt, which was one of his better features.He’d also grown a considerably longer beard in the fortnight since she’d last seen him.Thick and dark like his brows.It served to pull your gaze down to his lips and away from his eyes.
“I see the stylist got to you.”She bounced to her feet to greet him and accepted his tight hug.He smelled different too.Gone was the earthy citrus spice replaced by something sharper, cleaner, and considerably more manufactured.
