up all my hopes and fears about love, which is, like, the deepest feeling ever.’
The crowd roared its approval of the profoundly meaningful lyrics of ‘Blue Seahorses’.
‘And so many of you have got in touch to say how much the song means to you as well, which is
so
emotional for me to hear,’ Tarquin continued, and the young female fans at
the front, all of whom were madly in love with him, squealed at almost bat-like pitch at the idea of Tarquin reading the emails and Facebook and Twitter posts in which they poured out their hearts
to him.
‘So look, I was planning to do this at the end of our set, but I just can’t hold it back any more! I feel your love surrounding me, lifting me up like the seahorses, and I’m
just like – the time is
now
!’
Tarquin turned, sweat flicking from the tips of his boyish golden curls, one hand to his brow to block out the sun as he squinted into the wings to spot Milly.
‘Some of you may know my girlfriend, Milly Gamble,’ he continued, at which the screams dwindled considerably; Tarquin’s female fans either pretended that Milly didn’t
exist or posted screeds of hate on fan-boards about how she wasn’t worthy of him.
‘
Some
of them?’ Milly muttered to Eva, equally unenthusiastic at his words. ‘
Please
. I was in
Dr
fucking
Who
!’
To be fair, Milly was quite right. Most of the audience would recognize her, and the majority of those who did would be able to put the name to her adorably pretty face, that of a perfect
English flower child: big blue eyes, blonde ringlets, round chipmunk cheeks and just a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her tip-tilted nose. Because of her looks, Milly was always cast
as the innocent heroine. She had already been Hero to Melody Dale’s Beatrice in the recent RSC
Much Ado About Nothing
, a Dickens heroine for ITV and a princess in a castle on
Dr
Who
(played by Melody’s husband James).
It was deeply frustrating for Milly, who was longing to break free of this typecasting and play a scheming bitch for a change, and not just because it would reflect her true personality so much
better. But she was intelligent enough to go with what nature had dealt her, and there was no point trying and failing to be cast as a femme fatale when you looked like an innocent Dickensian
virgin. She was just twenty-three, and already well-known enough to pose for glossy magazines, usually with the caption ‘Britain’s Newest Sweetheart’ above her delightful little
face: if that was how she was going to be perceived, Milly had decided, then why not try for ‘America’s Sweetheart’ too? She was determined to crack the States, had already been
compared several times to a young Meg Ryan, and being not just an up-and-coming ingénue, but half of a young and gorgeous celebrity couple to boot, was perfect publicity.
‘Milly! Darling, come out here,’ Tarquin called, holding out his hand to her.
‘She’s not going to fucking
duet
with him, is she?’ Elden hissed to Lance, one hand covering his mike so his words didn’t get picked up, winding his fingers
furiously through his beard with the other. All the Ormonds but Tarquin had beards: to his great distress, he was unable to grow anything more than blonde bum fluff. ‘Because she can’t
fucking
sing
, for a start.’
‘Everyone! Milly’s a bit shy!’ Tarquin said, utterly misunderstanding Milly’s delay. In fact, she was swiftly adjusting the daisy chain she wore in her hair and checking
the embroidered neckline of the white broderie anglaise Temperley dropped-waist mini-dress that looked charmingly simple but had cost over three thousand pounds. ‘Let’s all call her
name to show her how much we want her out here!’
Female voices were not much on display in the chants of ‘Milly! Milly!’ that rose from the audience; when Milly finally stepped onto the stage in her wedge sandals, the cheers that
arose were mostly from men at the front craning to see up
The crowd roared its approval of the profoundly meaningful lyrics of ‘Blue Seahorses’.
‘And so many of you have got in touch to say how much the song means to you as well, which is
so
emotional for me to hear,’ Tarquin continued, and the young female fans at
the front, all of whom were madly in love with him, squealed at almost bat-like pitch at the idea of Tarquin reading the emails and Facebook and Twitter posts in which they poured out their hearts
to him.
‘So look, I was planning to do this at the end of our set, but I just can’t hold it back any more! I feel your love surrounding me, lifting me up like the seahorses, and I’m
just like – the time is
now
!’
Tarquin turned, sweat flicking from the tips of his boyish golden curls, one hand to his brow to block out the sun as he squinted into the wings to spot Milly.
‘Some of you may know my girlfriend, Milly Gamble,’ he continued, at which the screams dwindled considerably; Tarquin’s female fans either pretended that Milly didn’t
exist or posted screeds of hate on fan-boards about how she wasn’t worthy of him.
‘
Some
of them?’ Milly muttered to Eva, equally unenthusiastic at his words. ‘
Please
. I was in
Dr
fucking
Who
!’
To be fair, Milly was quite right. Most of the audience would recognize her, and the majority of those who did would be able to put the name to her adorably pretty face, that of a perfect
English flower child: big blue eyes, blonde ringlets, round chipmunk cheeks and just a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her tip-tilted nose. Because of her looks, Milly was always cast
as the innocent heroine. She had already been Hero to Melody Dale’s Beatrice in the recent RSC
Much Ado About Nothing
, a Dickens heroine for ITV and a princess in a castle on
Dr
Who
(played by Melody’s husband James).
It was deeply frustrating for Milly, who was longing to break free of this typecasting and play a scheming bitch for a change, and not just because it would reflect her true personality so much
better. But she was intelligent enough to go with what nature had dealt her, and there was no point trying and failing to be cast as a femme fatale when you looked like an innocent Dickensian
virgin. She was just twenty-three, and already well-known enough to pose for glossy magazines, usually with the caption ‘Britain’s Newest Sweetheart’ above her delightful little
face: if that was how she was going to be perceived, Milly had decided, then why not try for ‘America’s Sweetheart’ too? She was determined to crack the States, had already been
compared several times to a young Meg Ryan, and being not just an up-and-coming ingénue, but half of a young and gorgeous celebrity couple to boot, was perfect publicity.
‘Milly! Darling, come out here,’ Tarquin called, holding out his hand to her.
‘She’s not going to fucking
duet
with him, is she?’ Elden hissed to Lance, one hand covering his mike so his words didn’t get picked up, winding his fingers
furiously through his beard with the other. All the Ormonds but Tarquin had beards: to his great distress, he was unable to grow anything more than blonde bum fluff. ‘Because she can’t
fucking
sing
, for a start.’
‘Everyone! Milly’s a bit shy!’ Tarquin said, utterly misunderstanding Milly’s delay. In fact, she was swiftly adjusting the daisy chain she wore in her hair and checking
the embroidered neckline of the white broderie anglaise Temperley dropped-waist mini-dress that looked charmingly simple but had cost over three thousand pounds. ‘Let’s all call her
name to show her how much we want her out here!’
Female voices were not much on display in the chants of ‘Milly! Milly!’ that rose from the audience; when Milly finally stepped onto the stage in her wedge sandals, the cheers that
arose were mostly from men at the front craning to see up
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