The Blissfully Dead by Mark Edwards, Louise Voss Page B
Authors: Mark Edwards, Louise Voss
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billionth time and decided that Shawn makes me feel like chocolate on a hot day. I MELT!!!!
This was followed by numerous posts full of OMGs and multicoloured dancing smileys, all the girls agreeing and discussing what chocolate bar they would be.
Wendy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She needed to get this first response right. Inside, she was that thirteen-year-old girl, desperate to be liked, to be part of the gang.
She typed: Shawn makes me feel like a Haribo on a hot day – all sticky ☺ !!!
She hit enter and waited for the response. Would the girls find it too gross? Unfunny? Would they ignore her or, worse, attack her?
She hit refresh. To her enormous relief, two users had already posted responses full of rolling, laughing smileys. The first of these called herself F-U-Cancer – another of the site’s super users – and then the rest were off, discussing what confectionery Shawn made them feel like, and why. Wendy waited, but Jade didn’t post in this thread again. Instead, she started a new one, and soon all the girls were chatting about how long they had been OnT fans, as if it was a competition, and then they were all laughing about ‘noobs’ who thought they had the right to call themselves proper fans. Jade was the most scathing about noobs, as if anyone who hadn’t got into OnT from the moment they formed was an inferior being. Wendy contemplated joining in with this thread, either defending new fans or claiming she’d been into them since day one. She decided to leave it. She didn’t want to rile this Jade person further.
Wendy was going to have to work hard to show Lennon the progress he demanded. She got up and went to the coffee machine in the corridor. She had a feeling she was going to be pulling an all-nighter.
Chapter 17
Day 5 – Patrick
P atrick’s teenage self had endlessly fantasised about the thing he was doing at this very moment: pushing his way through glass revolving doors into the cavernous atrium of a multinational music corporation. He quashed the thought immediately, castigating himself for such shallow egotistical whimsy when two teenage girls had so recently lost their lives. Besides, in his fantasy he was there because his Cure-rip-off band had just been signed for a six-figure sum and was being paraded around the offices as the Next Big Thing. That was never going to happen.
‘Posh, innit?’ said Carmella under her breath, looking around the mirrored foyer. Global Sounds Music – GSM – had, over recent years, taken over several other major record labels and was now the biggest multinational player in the market. Ten-foot-high glossy photos of the various labels’ most successful artists interspersed the mirrored panels, and the vast expanses of perfectly toned flesh, male and female, made Patrick subconsciously suck in his stomach and push back his shoulders. The music industry was meant to be in trouble, battered by free downloads and streaming, but there was little sign of a tightening of belts here.
‘I don’t recognise any of these artists,’ he commented in reply. ‘Do you?’
Carmella inspected the pictures. ‘Hmm. That’s – thingy, you know, that R&B guy who got done for doing 150 mph on the A3 in his Aston Martin last week. And that’s Selina Whatsername. Married to the Liverpool footballer.’
‘Helpful, Carmella.’
Patrick felt quite disgruntled at his lack of current pop knowledge. How had he got so old? He had always prided himself on his musical trivia skills, but now he realised he’d be stuck in any pop quiz question post about 1990. Still, it wasn’t the same these days. Whenever he heard snippets of chart music, he turned into his father – the words ‘tuneless racket’ sprang immediately into his head.
‘Well, you must recognise these boys,’ Carmella said, jerking her head towards the larger-than-life photograph of OnTarget. The four members were dressed in matching but different coloured suits, standing with
This was followed by numerous posts full of OMGs and multicoloured dancing smileys, all the girls agreeing and discussing what chocolate bar they would be.
Wendy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She needed to get this first response right. Inside, she was that thirteen-year-old girl, desperate to be liked, to be part of the gang.
She typed: Shawn makes me feel like a Haribo on a hot day – all sticky ☺ !!!
She hit enter and waited for the response. Would the girls find it too gross? Unfunny? Would they ignore her or, worse, attack her?
She hit refresh. To her enormous relief, two users had already posted responses full of rolling, laughing smileys. The first of these called herself F-U-Cancer – another of the site’s super users – and then the rest were off, discussing what confectionery Shawn made them feel like, and why. Wendy waited, but Jade didn’t post in this thread again. Instead, she started a new one, and soon all the girls were chatting about how long they had been OnT fans, as if it was a competition, and then they were all laughing about ‘noobs’ who thought they had the right to call themselves proper fans. Jade was the most scathing about noobs, as if anyone who hadn’t got into OnT from the moment they formed was an inferior being. Wendy contemplated joining in with this thread, either defending new fans or claiming she’d been into them since day one. She decided to leave it. She didn’t want to rile this Jade person further.
Wendy was going to have to work hard to show Lennon the progress he demanded. She got up and went to the coffee machine in the corridor. She had a feeling she was going to be pulling an all-nighter.
Chapter 17
Day 5 – Patrick
P atrick’s teenage self had endlessly fantasised about the thing he was doing at this very moment: pushing his way through glass revolving doors into the cavernous atrium of a multinational music corporation. He quashed the thought immediately, castigating himself for such shallow egotistical whimsy when two teenage girls had so recently lost their lives. Besides, in his fantasy he was there because his Cure-rip-off band had just been signed for a six-figure sum and was being paraded around the offices as the Next Big Thing. That was never going to happen.
‘Posh, innit?’ said Carmella under her breath, looking around the mirrored foyer. Global Sounds Music – GSM – had, over recent years, taken over several other major record labels and was now the biggest multinational player in the market. Ten-foot-high glossy photos of the various labels’ most successful artists interspersed the mirrored panels, and the vast expanses of perfectly toned flesh, male and female, made Patrick subconsciously suck in his stomach and push back his shoulders. The music industry was meant to be in trouble, battered by free downloads and streaming, but there was little sign of a tightening of belts here.
‘I don’t recognise any of these artists,’ he commented in reply. ‘Do you?’
Carmella inspected the pictures. ‘Hmm. That’s – thingy, you know, that R&B guy who got done for doing 150 mph on the A3 in his Aston Martin last week. And that’s Selina Whatsername. Married to the Liverpool footballer.’
‘Helpful, Carmella.’
Patrick felt quite disgruntled at his lack of current pop knowledge. How had he got so old? He had always prided himself on his musical trivia skills, but now he realised he’d be stuck in any pop quiz question post about 1990. Still, it wasn’t the same these days. Whenever he heard snippets of chart music, he turned into his father – the words ‘tuneless racket’ sprang immediately into his head.
‘Well, you must recognise these boys,’ Carmella said, jerking her head towards the larger-than-life photograph of OnTarget. The four members were dressed in matching but different coloured suits, standing with
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