“Yeah, I need fifteen pizzas for the Backstreet Boys,” said the slightly overweight man with the headset and the black T-shirt in a strong American accent.
“What?” said Marisa.
“WHAT?!” said Polly.
An unmistakable chord started up from the main stage for the soundcheck and Marisa and Polly looked at each other and screamed out loud.
“Um, maybe they could come and pick it up?” said Polly, helpless with laughter when she finally calmed down.
“Could they sign the box?” said Marisa.
“I’M MAKING KEVIN’S,” announced Polly.
“Hey, I’m single, I want to make Kevin’s!”
The roadie had heard all of this before, a million times, and stared straight ahead, unblinking.
“Gluten-free with no cheese and a rocket topping,” he said.
“We don’t have any rocket,” said Marisa. “Although if you like I will go and personally grow some rocket now and harvest it for you. But only for Kevin’s.”
The roadie sighed. Everyone backstage was secretly delighted whenever this happened.
“Okay, just give me all pepperoni then.”
“I think we should probably give you a hand to deliver them,” said Polly. “You’ll never carry fifteen pizzas by yourself.”
The roadie was more than 300 pounds and built like a brick shithouse. He gave them a tight smile.
“We tried,” said Polly to Marisa, who was spreading basil leaves in the shape of a smiley face.
“This one is for Kevin,” she said sternly. Then, to Polly, “Can we shut the stand for their set?”
“Absolutely no— JAYDEN!”
Jayden was walking by with his wife, Flora. Like many villagers he wasn’t technically invited but had somehow entirely by coincidence found himself down there and even though there were bouncers on the entrance to the beach with walkie-talkies and official lists and ID required, the bouncers were also, when they weren’t being billionaire party bouncers—a job which wasn’t really full-time in their neck of the woods—mostly Mount Polbearne fisherman, a weakness in Reuben’s otherwise flawless organization.
“GET OVER HERE!” said Polly.
“What?”
He looked furtive, as though he’d been discovered.
“Take over the stall and I won’t dob you in,” said Polly. “Both of you.”
They looked at each other.
“Don’t you want to see the Backstreet Boys?” Jayden asked his wife.
“Oh God, they’re an old person’s band,” said Florrie, and Polly rolled her eyes and they both took off their aprons and fled.
Kerensa, of course, was up in the wings of the stage, and beckoned them up.
“Do come have a drink with us and the boys afterward,” she purred.
“Absolutely not,” said Polly. “How could a Backstreet Boy possibly resist the charms of a well-upholstered middle-aged baker with two children? I’d be asking for trouble.”
Marisa, meanwhile, had noticed something else, and could barely pay attention as the group took the stage, to a roar of screaming from a group of mums who were having the time of their lives and had forgotten they even had children.
Behind the boys on stage, leaving them plenty of room for dancing, was the most beautiful big shiny black grand piano she had ever seen. It must have been ten feet long, it was ridiculous. Her heart started to beat very quickly. He was going to love it.
“Is that for . . .” She couldn’t say his name. “Is that for the piano player?”
Kerensa looked round from where she was dancing away. Then she looked closer at Marisa.
“Ah yes,” said Polly. “My business partner loves the piano player.”
Kerensa’s face beamed with delight.
“There are five Backstreet Boys a foot away from us and you are asking about the gigantic hairy PIANO PLAYER?”
Polly smiled too.
“You have it bad!”
“They’re wearing leather skin-tight trousers!”
“I would not like to see the twins’ piano teacher in leather skin-tight trousers,” said Polly, craning her neck briefly to see if they were out there, then guiltily checking her phone to see that they were safe with Huckle, who was bored out of his mind in the tent, and deciding not to worry about them for five seconds in a day.
Marisa glanced around to see if he was anywhere.
“He’ll be in the holding area for performers,” said Kerensa. “I can take you there if you like.”
“Oh no, I—”
“And now!” shouted out a Backstreet Boy. “Where’s the birthday boy?”
There was no response. Lowin was out, doing the purest, most fun thing an eight-year-old could conceivably do on his half-birthday, no matter how much money you spent on it: splashing in some water, surrounded by all his friends.
“We wanna say a special hello to the birthday boy.”
Without a word, Kerensa marched onto the stage.
“Well, as I’m afraid he’s not here, I guess I’ll have to do,” she said, proffering her face for a kiss.