What’s The Catch?

Chapter 1

FRIDAY

Once again, I am sitting with my head between my legs.

This does nothing to quell my nausea or cool the tangled heap of steaming nerves at the base of my skull. Which is a great pity, as this is supposed to be the most exciting day of my life. And we are definitely at risk of running out of time.

Hennie’s voice breaks through the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears and the endless bed of festival noise. Bass ebbs through the ground so deeply that I can feel it in my toes, and the sensation is so strange and uncomfortable that I have to wiggle them to distract myself from it.

‘How are we doing, petal?’ she asks.

I run my hands over my scalp, ignoring the heat that seems to be emanating from every inch of my skin. She tries again, a little louder this time.

‘Nora, babe, please give me a sign of life.’

Without raising my head, I shoot her a shaky thumbs up, and she immediately clutches my hand within her own. I squeeze back, grateful for the contact. She knows it helps.

I release a shaky breath. The reality of what I am about to do has hit me all at once and, as usual, my body has overreacted.

‘I must say, Mother Nature has really blessed us with the weather for this big life event of yours,’ Hennie says, forcing a lightness into her voice. ‘We should give her thanks.’

I open my eyes to see her huge brown ones traced with thinly veiled concern, peering at me as closely as she can without invading my space.

‘Thank you, Mother Nature,’ I mumble, not feeling very grateful for the stifling heat that makes every breath feel uncomfortably warm and unsatisfying. Is the world conspiring to try and make me lose consciousness?

I follow this up with a long, muffled groan through my hands.

‘Ah,’ she says sagely. ‘Would you like to speak more on that?’

‘Not really,’ I reply apologetically, my voice barely audible.

‘Do you need a cry?’ she asks.

I shake my head, ignoring how the motion triggers a wave of dizziness.

‘Do you need a nervous wee, perhaps?’

‘Don’t believe so.’

‘Is our original idea of constant chatter to distract you not working?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Possibly working or possibly not working?’ she presses.

‘Both?’

There’s a brief pause.

‘Understood,’ she says, gently patting my shoe.

‘I’m sorry,’ I moan. ‘I’m not being helpful.’

‘Well, of course you’re not,’ she says, her patience relentless. ‘You don’t need to be. Your body is literally in crisis.’

A bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck, as if on cue.

‘Remember, you’re the priority here; this is your moment,’ she insists. ‘We’ll do whatever you want to do.’

‘If I’m honest, what I’d really like is to be airlifted out of here,’ I snort. ‘But I feel like I have to see this through, unfortunately.’

She casts me a reassuring grin. ‘Yes, you did fight terribly hard for these tickets. Most sought after event on the planet, famously.’

I wheeze a laugh. ‘You get some credit, too. Let’s not forget you briefly took up manifestation.’

‘I did. Well, if you deem a helicopter necessary, so be it,’ she says solemnly. ‘Just say the word, Harty.’

‘To be fair, if anyone could pull that off, it would be you,’ I tell her with a smile, before burying my face in my knees.

I focus on one of the breathing exercises that Daphne taught me.

Breathe in for seven seconds, out for eleven.

Although it has to be said, it does feel wildly different doing it with my therapist on a Zoom call in the safety of my bedroom compared to the centre of the manifestation of all my nightmares: Firecrest Festival.

One of the biggest festivals in the world and absolutely overflowing with my personal demons: loud noises, unfamiliar surroundings, wide open spaces, and of course, crowds. Monstrous ones. Picture the biggest crowd you’ve ever seen and multiply it by three. That’s your typical Firecrest crowd.

My breathing exercise stutters to a stop again as my thoughts overpower my body. At least I made it to four this time… did I? It’s difficult to concentrate when it feels like my air supply has been severed, but Hennie interrupts my spiralling anyway.

‘We don’t have to go straight to the front,’ her voice probes gently. ‘Maybe we can watch it from the back. Or if you need to, we can just skedaddle the fuck out of here.’

I know she’s doing everything in her power to help me feel as comfortable as possible and I feel such a fierce rush of love for her that my heart constricts.

‘Hey,’ I interrupt her with a forced smile, gesturing down at myself. ‘I’m fine, look at me.’

She does. With some concern.

I rest my head against the back of the fence. ‘I just need one second. I’ll be right with you.’

She casts me one last anxious glance before standing to stretch her legs. She studies the scene that stretches out before us, the sun encasing her in a golden halo, her white-blonde hair falling around her face in glistening threads of silver.

Firecrest Festival (or “Crest Fest” as it is lovingly referred to by enthusiasts) is, even I have to admit, a sight to behold.

A magnificent sea of colour sprawls before us underneath a clear, blue sky; tents of every colour and size stretch across every patch of grass within sight, all the way to the top of the valley and eventually up to the fence that completely encircles the festival grounds.

Circus tents and smaller stages nestle cosily amongst them, and tall, intricately painted flags billow everywhere you look.

Impossible to ignore, the Firecrest Stage stands proudly at the very centre of the site. It looks like half of an enormous sphere – like a freakish orb has been sliced down the centre and pulled apart to reveal a stage inside.

Every year, the festival organisers have a different artist design something to adorn the shell of it; this year a blue teddy bear walks across a tiny planet Earth and the words Crest Fest in wobbly bubble writing hover above it.

The bear’s cuteness does nothing to sway me.

The stage is somehow bigger than I had imagined, and even the sight of it in the distance makes my knees shake.

I will be avoiding it at all costs.

Thankfully, Queen Ego are playing on a smaller stage, aptly named the Tower Stage, that looms directly ahead of us: an impressive structure made up of long pillars of wood and dozens of flags encircling the top of the stage like sunbeams.

I collect myself enough to pull my backpack from my shoulders and down half the contents of my water bottle.

Grabbing my pocket mirror, I sigh when I open it to check my general state.

There really is no hope for me at this point, but I adjust the glitter that has migrated down my face nonetheless.

I scrub at my freckle-scattered nose to clear the golden flecks and attempt to ruffle my fringe to break up my red, frizzy waves.

Unsurprisingly, my eyeliner has smudged beyond repair thanks to the roaring heat this summer has kindly bestowed onto us. Many thanks again, Mother Nature.

It’s now or never. I can’t procrastinate for any longer.

I’ve worked so hard for this moment, which is why I force myself to my feet, despite the fact that my legs are possibly at baby Bambi levels of unsteady and my expression is probably so petrified that I resemble a small rodent that’s been spotted by a bird of prey.

I did this. I’m doing this.

‘I’m doing this,’ I repeat to Hennie.

‘Yes, you are, Harty. Can I feed you a fizzy cola bottle for strength?’ she offers.

‘No, no. No sugar,’ I say like a woman possessed. I’m successfully standing, which means that the next logical step is walking. Oh God.

‘Remember, since we put The Plan together, we’ve said that this was always going to be the worst part: the anticipation. And may I say, you’re doing fucking great. You look radiant as well. Bit unfair, actually.’

‘That’ll be the sweat,’ I point out.

‘Come on, you’ve got to let me applaud you once in a while,’ she adds. ‘This is wild. It’s incredible! Look at where we are!’ She gestures grandly at our surroundings.

My laugh comes out wobbly. ‘Let’s see if I hit the grass face-first before using words like incredible.’

‘What do you think I’m here for? Who else will catch you if you collapse?’ she quips.

I scoff with laughter, tossing an arm around her shoulders.

On first glance, one might be able to argue that we look like we belong in a festival environment, with our iridescent face glitter and worn-in trainers.

As usual, Hennie looks positively dreamlike, like something from a magazine spread in khaki shorts matched with a puffy white shirt and a decorated corset situation.

She’s even paired a tiara with her look, made up of golden vines and decorated with tiny stars.

With my cropped Queen Ego t-shirt and everyday baggy bomber jacket tied around my waist, I look much more ordinary in comparison.

Up until now, Firecrest Festival sat very low on the list of places we imagined visiting together.

The state of Hennie’s bank account (which she often complains about as someone struggling to break into the styling industry), and my lack of mental stability means hanging out in bedrooms and living rooms, or cinemas and board game cafes.

Not world-renowned music festivals in the company of tens of thousands of guests.

We approach the minimal crowd starting to build around the Tower Stage to see there’s still plenty of space around the front, just as I hoped. As is part of The Plan.

The original title of the The Plan became a little too long to use: Nora’s Plan To See Queen Ego And Survive And Maybe Even Enjoy It A Little Bit.

It is, somehow, still going smoothly though.

I ignore the tiny, annoying voice claiming that The Plan will inevitably crumble any second now and that I’m about to ruin everything.