Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
She made me laugh. Boosted my confidence, too. I walked with an added pep in my step, feeling rather smug as we strolled on by the line of people that stretched all the way around the huge building. There were several security guards posted around the entrance. All beefy looking, aided by those thick, padded jackets that made their arms look too short for their bodies.
I assumed any one of them could help get us inside, so I picked randomly, choosing the bearded guy with the mean stare positioned directly under an illuminated poster of Hugo. “Excuse me?” I called, raising my hand as if I was still in bloody school.
“Doors don’t open for another hour,” he barked without bothering to look at me. Ignorant arsehole.
“I know. I’m a friend of Hugo’s.”
Now he looked. “Yeah, and my mam’s the queen. Get in the queue, love.”
I heard a snort filter through Chrissie’s nose beside me, which wasn’t helpful at all.
Huffing, I ripped open my clutch and pulled out my phone. “He told me to give you this number,” I said, handing him the device.
He looked at the phone and then back at me as if he’d just caught me pissing on his dog. Then, he used his own phone to do exactly as I’d asked. “It’s Daz Cooper on the doors. I’ve got a woman here trying to get in, reckons she knows the artist.” Pausing, he pulled the phone away from his ear. “What’s yer name?”
“Helen Jenkins. This is my friend, Chrissie Morris.”
“Jenkins. Got a mate with her. Morris.” I could see on his face the precise moment my identity had been confirmed on his face and that smugness returned to my belly. I hoped he felt really stupid, because, seemingly, I was a childish prick.
Ending his call, he tucked his phone in his top pocket and passed me my own back. “Wait over there.” He tipped his chin towards the double doors to his right. “Someone’ll be out to get yer in a minute.”
“Gee, thanks. Such polite service you have here.”
He didn’t respond to my sarcasm. I doubted he responded to much at all. Maybe violence. I’d bet he’d be good at that. Thankfully, someone who’d been raised with manners came to collect Chrissie and I from the doors. Inside, she escorted us to a side room behind the ticket office first, scanned the tickets that she’d brought with her before handing me the stubs, and then gave us each a lanyard featuring backstage passes. “The VIP blocks are this way,” she said, leading us down the echoing corridor.
I’d been to this arena a handful of times before, seen some epic shows performed here, but I’d never walked this hall in such quietness. Usually, I’d be shoulder to shoulder with other attendees as we struggled to find the block number that corresponded with our ticket. My shoes would crunch dropped crisps, hands would be flying up to avoid the inevitable beer splashes as arms got bumped into. But the place was all but empty. Eerie, almost. It felt so big and cold.
“Here you go.” The woman, dressed in a sharp black suit and not the typical arena uniform, proffered her hand towards an open door. “Here’s your box. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes and remain here for the rest of your evening. If you need anything - drinks, food, assistance, just come to the bar. My name is Catherine, by the way.”
I stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded. I could see inside the ‘box’. It’s not the word I would have used to describe the room that had upwards of fifteen comfy-looking seats, and not the fold-down kind you usually had at a show. Inside, the bar Catherine had mentioned lined the back wall. An actual, private bar, fully stocked with a range of alcohol and snacks.
“Bloody hell. There’s a menu!” Chrissie said. “And not just crisps and hot dogs.”
I turned my back on the view of the stage to find Chrissie wide-eyed and open-mouthed, staring at the laminated card. “Good job you didn’t finish that burger. I fancy this basket of scampi and thrice cooked chips. No prices, though. Do you think we have to pay?”
My eyes wouldn’t stop blinking, like I’d suddenly developed a nervous tic. I felt rather overwhelmed. “I dunno.” I doubted it, but it seemed rude to presume.
Chrissie’s head tilted, deep in thought. “How do you even cook chips three times? And…why bother?”
I didn’t get a chance to reply, not that I had an answer anyway, because we were interrupted by another woman entering the luxury room they described as a box. This woman was dressed more casually, in dark jeans and a Hugo Hayes: Hope & Wonder Tour tee. She wore a headset over her short blonde hair and carried an iPad tucked under her arm. She approached us with a smile, offered her hand for a shake, which I accepted, as did Chrissie at her turn.