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and the general noise levels don’t vary throughout our rendition of ‘Party in the USA’ by Miley Cyrus. (Actually by Jessie J, as Rose pointed out to us earlier, and only sung by Miley Cyrus. Not that the audience would be that bothered about who wrote the song; I’m not even sure they’re aware we’re singing it.)
    Mortified, we carry on. Was this what George wanted? To humiliate us? Did he know this was going to happen?
    â€˜Shall we stop now?’ Nell asks, when we’re almost done with Miley.
    â€˜Yes, let’s,’ Rose agrees gratefully. ‘No,’ Jodie says with a quick shake of her head. Fury and pure stubbornness are pushing her on.
    â€˜Just one more?’ I suggest, as a compromise.
    Unwillingly, the others agree.
    And then, suddenly, everything goes black.
    A socket behind us pops, with a flash and a little puff of smoke, and the barn is plunged into darkness. For amoment, the sudden silence has a volume of its own, then the crowd starts to laugh and boo.
    â€˜Come on, George! Sort it out!’ someone shouts.
    After a minute of fiddling, a couple of lights come back on – but they turn out to be two spotlights, shining right in our eyes and preventing us from seeing the crowd at all. The mics and speakers stay firmly mute. We’re stuck onstage and now everyone must be looking at us. Finally. If not exactly in the way we hoped.
    There are a few laughs from the crowd, who seem to have spotted us for the first time.
    â€˜Oi!’ a boy shouts from near the back, ‘aren’t you the “Sunglasses” girls?’
    â€˜Yeah!’ someone else shouts. ‘Sing us your song, then.’
    Oh wow, so they do know who we are. Not that it helps.
    â€˜But we can’t,’ I shout out. ‘No sound.’ I point behind us and shrug.
    The crowd are in a strange mood, though. Good-humoured, but not really listening to us. They start up a chant: ‘Sun-glass-es, Sun-glass-es, Sun-glass-es.’
    Nell looks at me helplessly. I look at Jodie. She looks at Rose. Rose looks astonished. Meanwhile, the chant goes on.
    â€˜We’ve got to do something,’ Jodie says.
    A tall figure pushes through the crowd, which parts to make way for him. It’s one of the boys from Call of Duty – not Ed, the singer, but the other Abercrombie type – clutching an acoustic guitar. He stands in front of the stage and holds it up towards me.
    â€˜I always bring one, just in case. Maybe one of you could play?’
    He glances at Rose. She stares blankly ahead.
    â€˜Will you?’ I ask her.
    She says nothing, and seems rooted to the spot.
    â€˜Anyway, take it,’ the boy says, handing the guitar to me.
    I take it. It seems very kind of him, when we’ve overtaken his band on Killer Act and he could easily just watch us squirm. Nell gives him her cutest smile and even Jodie looks cheerful. He blends back into the crowd and I hand the guitar to Rose. She looks at it like it’s a hologram, or a unicorn. I worry that she might be sick again – here is not the place. But she looks more confused than anything.
    â€˜You could play it,’ I suggest.
    She looks out at the audience, then back at the guitar. Focusing on it seems to help – taking her mind off what’s happening. There’s a strap, which she puts over her shoulder.
    â€˜Promise me you’ll sing,’ she mutters. ‘Promise me.’
    â€˜I promise.’
    She closes her eyes and strums the strings. It’s funny: the thing that would terrify me most – playing an instrument in public – is what seems to calm Rose down. She tries a few notes, opens her eyes and suddenly she’s a different girl. She looks OK now. In fact, she looks better than she has for ages. I think she’s gone beyond fear.
    There’s a lot of shushing in the audience. Now the crowd are curious.
    â€˜Are you ready?’ Rose asks quietly.
    Jodie shrugs.