by Terry Tyler
Janice had thought she was moderately happy, before, but now Dave was easing himself away from her she realised how much her life had centred around him, for all her talk about not needing him.
MySpace still cheered her up, though; she liked that.
Perhaps she might meet someone on there, one day; people did, didn't they? You heard about it all the time; husbands and wives who'd met on some internet site or other.
"You all right there, Jan?"
Jan's employer and owner of the Sunrise Café, Max Stark, emerged from cleaning the kitchen to cash up for the day.
She turned round and smiled. "Yeah. I suppose. Just thinking."
"Anything you want to run past me?" he asked, opening the till and thumbing through a pile of ten pound notes. He looked up at her and smiled. "You look troubled."
She sighed. "Nothing to tell, really. I was just - oh, thinking that every day is the same old same old. You know, finish up here, collect Harley from Mum's, get home, make tea, watch telly, go to bed, get up - you know!"
"Yeah, I know." He looked up at her. "What about your Dave? Is he not being much help?"
Your Dave. That, again.
Janice looked away, out of the window again. Oh dear, the lumpy thing had appeared in her throat again. She mustn't cry, not here. "He's not my Dave. Not now. We split, remember?"
"Yes, I know. But I thought it was just temporary. I thought you still saw each other all the time."
"We did. Not so much now."
"Oh." He took the change out of the till and started arranging pound coins into piles of ten. "Is that a problem?"
"A bit." She looked down at her feet. Her trainers had tomato ketchup on them.
"Has he got a new girlfriend, something like that?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
Max looked up. "Would he tell you if he had?"
Janice thought for a bit. "I think he would. I dunno - Max - " She stopped, then, and looked away.
"What? D'you think he has, then?" Max stopped what he was doing, came out from behind the counter and sat down opposite her.
"I don't know." She put her chin in her hand. "It's not something I thought he'd do - I mean, we've talked about getting back together. Recently." Not for more than two months now, though. "It's all my silly fault anyway, because I chucked him out, didn't I?"
"Yes, but you did that for a reason."
"Yes." It was nice sitting here, talking to Max like this. She didn't know why, in particular; it just made her feel safe. "I'm scared - " she began.
"Scared?"
"Yes - you see, this girl Alison, his girlfriend before me, she's come back. From London. That was why they split, because she moved away. About eight years ago. I always thought she was the big love of his life. I don't know - I'm scared that he might get back with her, and if he does, then he won't want me and Harley anymore. Not like he did, anyway."
"Hmm." Max frowned. "People don't usually get back together with their first loves. I mean, I know you hear about this stuff about people meeting their childhood sweethearts on Friends Reunited and breaking up their marriages, but it's pretty rare; that's why you hear about it when it happens. Has he given you any reason to think he's seeing her?"
"No, not really." Only that he was never around anymore. And he never suggested staying the night.
"Then he probably isn't. Happen she's not interested, anyway, if she left him in the first place. Eight years is a long time. People change, want different things."
"I suppose so." Talking to Max was making her feel less paranoid; she hadn't mentioned it to anyone until now, just allowed it to swirl around in the back of her mind, a silent raven lurking on the fence outside the back door.
"I should stop worrying about it, if I were you. Getting yourself worked up about things that haven't happened yet just wears you down!" He stood up. "You get off, sweetheart. I'll finish up in here."
Janice looked up at him. "Oh - thanks! Are you sure?"
He put a hand on her shoulder and for a moment she felt an overwhelming urge to nestle against his big, broad chest.
"Yeah! I've got a meeting at six-thirty, so there's not much point in going home first, anyway."
"A meeting? Oh - yes, I see!" She'd forgotten; Max had told her a couple of times that he was a 'recovering alcoholic'. She hadn't given it much thought; drink had never been a big thing in her life - she couldn't imagine having to go to supportive meetings to stop yourself doing it. Perhaps she ought to go to supportive meetings to stop herself wanting Dave. "Thanks," she said.
"Any time," Max said, and put a hand on her shoulder. Then he fished in his pocket. He pulled out a twenty pound note and gave it to her. "Get yourself and the lad a nice pizza for your tea, on me." He laughed. "Or whatever else you consider a treat, I don't know! Get a couple of DVDs out, a bottle of wine for yourself. I know I can't have it anymore, but I'd like to think of you chilling out with a nice bottle of Pinot, or something!"
She looked up at him, and the tears welled up in her eyes all over again. "Thanks, Max. That's lovely of you. Thanks."
"De nada. You need cheering up, that's all." He walked over to the cupboard and got out her bag and coat. "Have a good evening, Jan."
She felt like kissing him, but instead smiled, thanked him again, put on her coat and walked out into the rainy evening.
Janice did have a good evening, after all; she bought pizza and ice cream, horribly expensive Ribena for Harley instead of cheap squash, and a bottle of white wine for herself. She didn't get a DVD; she and Harley played games and drew pictures together, instead. After she'd put him to bed and read about Gordon The Big Engine until he fell asleep, she took the rest of the wine and logged on to MySpace, where she got chatting to a very nice chap called Tom. He liked Whitesnake, he said, and lived fairly locally; Whittlesey. His picture showed longish dark hair, sexy dark eyes, and a kind smile. By the time Janice went to bed, she had a smile on her face, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Raw Talent!
"We need to go further afield. We can't just keep playing the pubs round Fennington," said Dave. "We've got to broaden our horizons. Come on, we're Vikings, aren't we?"
"No," said Ritchie. "No, Dave. We ain't."
"Oh, well, you know what I mean! We need a proper manager who can get us some gigs in London. Like, you know, The Royal Standard. Walthamstow. That's where bands play when they're just starting to get a following, isn't it? Sort of, like, you get to play there and you're on your way?"
"Not really, not anymore," said Boz. "The 'rites of passage' venues don't really exist like they used to. There are some we could try, though - everyone wants to play The Hope and Anchor in Islington, and The Highbury Garage. Upstairs, that is. Couldn't hope for downstairs, not yet."
"Why not?" Shane asked.
"Well, 'cause we'd need to be a canny bit bigger than we are right now, bonny lad!" said Boz.
"Ariel was telling me about the Purple Turtle in Camden," Dave said, feeling a rush just at the mention of her name. Just saying it made him feel proud. She was sleeping with him, not any of the rest of them. Nor anyone else in the whole world.
Boz snorted with laughter. "Nah, man, they'd hoy us out as soon as we started playing! Either that or laugh us out. It's trendy, you know? Probably about right for cool chicks like Ariel, but not for us gang of ruffians!"
"I don't see what's wrong with just being a pub band," said Shane. "We're earning a bit, and people like us. It's a laugh, isn't it?"
"Yeah, if you don't mind poncing about in your local dressed up like a focking sheep," said Ritchie, and strummed a few chords on his much adored new Stingray.
"Aye, okay, I'll check some London venues out, see if I can put a few words in the right ears," said Boz. He coughed. "In the meantime, lads, I've arranged for us to go round to see old stonehead Kelvin on Saturday, to get the CD off the ground."
"That's excellent!" said Dave. "Right, let's get started! We've got to get all the songs go
od and tight!" He clenched his fist. "So, what are we going to have on the CD? I thought, 'Saved', 'Valhalla', 'Cross the Sea', 'Flying High', and that new one I started last week - 'Stampede'.
"Good shot, Dave, I liked that one!" Shane said.
"What, you mean that one that sounds exactly like 'Jailbreak' by Thin Lizzy?" said Ritchie.
"Oh, yeah," said Shane. He laughed. "That was why I liked it." He picked up his guitar. "Couldn't we just do 'Livin' on a Prayer'?"
"We probably will, next week," Ritchie said. "Except that Dave'll think he's written it."
Boz and Shane burst out laughing and Shane tossed his golden locks from side to side.
"Yeah, Dave's half way there!" he sang, "Whoa-ho, he's livin' on a prayer!"
Dave forced himself to join in with the laughter. They just didn't understand.
***
"Look at this!"
Melodie Waters burst into The Romany, dark locks flying, purple leather jacket flying open, too, to reveal a heavily fake tanned décolletage.
She sat down, quite heavily for her, on the corner seat next to where Ariel sat with three quarters of Thor; Shane had ducked out of the usual Sunday lunch time get together because he was 'on a promise', he said, with a Polish girl called Lena who worked in the plastics factory where he was currently employed.
"Look!" she said again, and thrust a rolled up magazine onto the table.
Ariel picked it up; it was just another of Melodie's celebrity gossip magazines.
"Look at page twenty-seven!" Melodie said. "Will somebody get me a drink?"
"I'll do the honours, pet," Boz said. "Vodka and tonic, right? Same again, everyone?"
Ariel glanced at Melodie's glowing, excited face; she hadn't seen her this animated since she'd learned that the Beckhams' marriage was in trouble.
Page twenty-seven. Ariel read; everyone else was quiet as she did so. And then she looked up and grinned, too.
"Why not?" she said. "Let's go for it!"
Dave and Ritchie grabbed the magazine from her, and scanned down the article; next moment, they were grinning, too. Even Ritchie.
A satellite channel called Inspire TV was to hold auditions for a new talent show, called Raw Talent. The format would be along the lines of The X Factor, with separate sections for bands, under and over twenty-fives, but with a difference. There would be no Simon Cowell figure, concerned only with who would make his record company the most money. No stylists, to turn the acts into carbon copies of what was already or had been popular. No big dramatic stage presentations with flashing lights and dancers - just, as the name of the programme implied, raw talent.
The prizes did, of course, reflect the size of the TV station; there was also no contract with a major record company, no immediate nationwide press coverage. However, the first prize was ten thousand pounds, a four page article and photo shoot in the magazine they were reading, and a spot at a moderately prestigious open air festival in Derbyshire, called Serendipity, the following summer.
'... fed up with manufactured pop artists, the MTV generation?' Ariel said, as she pored over and read out loud sections from the article. 'Inspire TV are looking for credible artistes, who might write their own material, play their own instruments. Yes, we want to see raw talent; maybe your voice is your instrument; we're rooting out singers who have not only the 'X' factor, but something different, too ...'
There were also second and third prizes of five thousand and two thousand pounds, with smaller articles in the magazine.
"My God," she said, "this is just the thing for us, isn't it? For all of us."
Dave looked at her; their eyes met, and they smiled.
"We've got to do this," Dave said. "Just imagine: Thor, Ariel Swan and Melodie Waters, win first, second and third prizes!"
"Melodie Valentine," said Melodie.
"What? I thought your surname was Waters."
"It is. But it's no name for a celebrity, is it? I'm going to call myself Melodie Valentine. Or Melodie Joy. Maybe even just Melodie."
"Oh. Right," said Dave. Perhaps he could call himself Lars Erikson, after all.
"That ain't a bad idea, Mel," said Ritchie, taking his pint from Boz, "it's like our Pete says, you've got to create the brand."
"Yes, but isn't that what this is not all about?" said Ariel. "This show is about substance over style, not just brand creation. That's why it looks so good."
Dave took a sip of lager. He didn't care. He was still going to change his name to Lars Erikson.
"Aye, I like it," said Boz, putting the magazine back on the table. "Let's go for it; we might as well, mightn't we? You never know who you might meet at these things, even if you don't win."
"The auditions take place during the second week of January," said Ariel, running her eyes down the article again. "Three days. The first day is open, as long as your application has fulfilled their criteria, and then they start whittling everyone down for the live shows. I'd say we need to go and apply online, now."
"That gives us six weeks to get ready for it," said Dave.
"Is that all?" Melodie looked worried. "I'll have to lose at least half a stone - the camera adds inches. And sort out my extensions. Ariel, we've got so much work to do! Shall we spend a day on it together, the week before? We need to get our nails done, and our eyebrows. I might get a pedicure and a skin peel, too."
"Why? Is having, like, no skin the in thing, then?" Ritchie asked. "And no-one's going to be looking at your feet, are they?"
Melodie gave him a withering look. "It's about feeling your best so you're at your most confident," she said. "Personally, I like to think that my feet are ready to be kissed at all times!"
"Oh, I'm sure Shane will kiss them for you, any time you like!" said Dave.
She smiled, coyly. "I'm going to get a spray tan, too. I think we all should!"
"Why don't you just sit in a bath filled with Bisto, like you normally do?" said Ritchie. "Hey, I know! Get a load of this - you could even practice singing a couple of songs while you're in it, have you thought of that?"
Melodie just looked at him, expressionless. "It matters what you look like. I mean, yes, you've got to be a good singer, but looks matter too. You don't see many really famous singers who aren't great looking."
"Barbra Streisand. Alison Moyet," said Dave. "Annie Lennox is well ugly."
"Well, she actually isn't," said Melodie. "But even if she was, all those ones you mentioned never went short on the grooming, did they?"
"I know what she means," Ariel said. "It never hurts to look your best - and there's no need to be so bloody rude, Ritchie! Have to say, though, Mel, I was actually going to spend these next six weeks getting my songs as near perfect as I can!" She smiled at her. "But yes, okay, we'll spend a day at a beauty parlour, it'll be fun."
"Right!" said Dave, "let's get these drinks drunk, and then everyone back to ours to apply for this, right?"
"Not me," said Ariel, "I've got to have a bath and get ready for work. I'll apply on Dad's computer at home."
Dave looked at her. "You sure?"
She smiled at him. "Yes. Sorry."
When she left, a few minutes later, he followed her out.
"When's your next night off?" he asked, and she could see the anxiety in his eyes; she knew how hard he was trying to look cool and casual, though, lounging there in the doorway.
"Wednesday," she said.
"Do you want to come round, then? Or we could go out, or something."
"Yeah," she said. "Send me a text."
"You do want to?"
"Yes!" She did; she just didn't want to do so forever and ever and all the time. Or did she? It was so difficult. Maybe if Dave was properly free -
"I'll perhaps come in and see you at work tonight. Me and Shane. It's quiz night, right?"
"Yes." Which meant he would want her to go home with him. Tonight meant a seven hour shift; after quiz night, always the busiest of the week, all she ever wanted to do was have a bath and take
her aching feet to bed, alone.
"I'll see you later, then."
"Yes." She smiled at him, kissed him on the cheek, wound her scarf around her neck to keep out the dank, late November chill, and walked off in the direction of the bus stop.
***
"Mummy, it hurts!"
Harley had a tummy ache and a hurty head, he said.
He hadn't got a temperature, so there was no need for a dash to the Saturday morning emergency surgery; he hadn't wanted his favourite breakfast of a boiled egg and toast soldiers that morning so Janice knew he really did feel sick, but she suspected the hurty head was a ploy to make her not go to work. She couldn't possibly let Max down, not on a Saturday, though; besides, she really needed the money.
She was due in work at noon, but her mother had called her at nine o'clock that morning to say that her slight cold had developed into something approaching 'flu; could Carolyn take him? Or Dave - he was the boy's father wasn't he? Or had he forgotten that, these days?
Normally Janice would have called Carolyn, who would have been happy to let him muck in with her two, but it wasn't fair to impose on her if Harley was likely to throw up at any moment. Dave's mother worked weekend shifts at the hospital whenever she could, so she was not likely to be at home, either.
Well, there was only one thing for it, wasn't there?
"Do you feel as if you're going to actually be sick, darling?" she asked him, cuddling his little body against hers.
"I don't know!" he moaned, and started to cry again, snuggling against her. "Don't go to work, Mummy! Stay here and look after me!"
She kissed his forehead and stroked his head. It was neither too hot nor too cold, thank goodness. "I've got to go to work, sweetheart. I've got to earn lots of pound coins so we can eat!"
