that he’s proud of it. Besides the cooked breakfast there are yogurts, croissants, Danish pastries, mountains of fresh fruit and about a dozen cereals to choose from.
I’m not hungry, but like most women when I eat, and even how much I eat, has little to do with hunger. I eat because it’s a mealtime, I eat when I’m fed up and when I’m in a really good mood, I eat loads when I’m premenstrual and often just because food is there. So far, this complete lack of discipline has had no adverse effect because I’m lucky enough to have inherited my father’s metabolism. Honestly, he eats like a pig but looks like a whippet. It’s the one thing worth inheriting (as one of five in a family that tends to ‘make do and mend’, I’m not holding out for any family heirlooms). Today I feel entitled to pile my plate with everything I can, except for the black pudding, and I wash the lot down with two huge mugs of tea.
I eat really quickly (again it’s the result of being one of five kids) and so despite the mountain of food I find that by 10.35 a.m. I am once again twiddling my thumbs, or more accurately the cord of the weighty AAA pass which hangs around my neck. Idly, I wonder exactly how far it can get me. Maybe I could have a snoop around the dressing-rooms. I have no interest in what Adam is doing front of stage, but as an avid reader of glossy gossipy magazines I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being just a tiny bit interested in seeing what Scottie Taylor’s dressing-room is like. After all, I’m flesh and blood. Yes, disappointed flesh and blood but all the same… I wonder what sort of riders and demands Scottie Taylor makes? Adam once worked on a gig for a very famous boy band and they all insisted on having their own dressing-room with en-suite bathrooms, which isn’t so strange, except they all had their baths filled with M&M sweets. Total madness but I can’t criticize. Who’s to say what I’d ask for if I could have anything? I bet those guys couldn’t believe their silly request had been taken seriously. Scottie and his band won’t be arriving for hours yet. Usually the artist arrives by helicopter just before the gig starts; it’s part of the theatre of the event. I think I could have a little poke around the dressing-room without disturbing anyone.
I follow my nose through a labyrinth of corridors. I hope that stars’ dressing-rooms truly do have enormous glittering stars on the door or else I won’t have a clue which door to open. I pass a few busy-looking people, all of whom are smoking, which is illegal as this is a public building. I don’t think they care; breaking rules is what they do. Some are carrying clipboards or instruments, everyone nods at me but no one strikes up a conversation or demands to know what I’m doing aimlessly wandering about backstage. Other than the smoking, the people I run into seem to have little in common. They are not uniformly young and breathtakingly beautiful, as might be expected from a Scottie Taylor entourage, nor are they all decked out in fabulous designer clothes. They do have a higher than average hit of slightly weird and whacky hair styles but that is about all that defines them as rock and roll. That, and the fact they are all very focused on whatever it is they are supposed to be doing, and so no one bothers with me. I imitate their efficient and purposeful strides so as to blend in. After a while I spot a door with the words THE BAND emblazoned in large red letters. I reach for the handle but before I push the door open I listen to see if there’s anyone inside.
I can’t hear anything so I risk a sneaky peek. I can always say I’m lost if I do get spotted and questioned by anyone. The dressing-room is not as glitzy as I expected. There are enormous leather couches pushed against two of the walls and a huge low glass coffee table in between. On the table there’s a nice arrangement of large white calla lilies; I check the tips and they are fresh, they’ve probably just gone in water. I hope whoever put the flowers here put a drop of lemonade in the vase too;