by A. J. Crofts
When Luke and I went into the studio to actually lay down the ‘Summer Wine’ track, there seemed to be a lot more people than usual lurking around behind the glass. I didn’t have much experience of that sort of thing, but I didn’t think that the men in suits were usually that much in evidence at the actual recording. Everyone was being so nice and congratulating us, it felt like we’d just got married.
‘They think they’ve got a Christmas number one in the bag,’ Luke whispered.
‘Really? Shit.’
It was only later that night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep properly, that I took in the full meaning of his words. A Christmas number one? That would be so cool. I was sure Dad would like that and maybe it would make him think about letting me come home now and then. Having Christmas dinner at home would be great, especially if I could persuade Luke to come too. My sisters would think I was the coolest person on the planet if I could turn up with him. I always loved Christmas. When it came to decorating the house and wrapping all the presents it was always Mum and me who went mad. The others enjoyed it, of course they did, but they didn’t go as potty with the tinsel and fairy lights as Mum and me.
Thinking of Luke made my conscience prickle and I promised myself that I would pop round and see Pete the next day and sort things out, although I wasn’t sure when I would fit it in.
The actual recording of the singing competition, which they’d decided to call Singing for their Fame, was recorded in front of a live studio audience. They were mostly friends and relatives of the participants or fan-club die-hards. An awful lot of them seemed to need sticks and zimmer frames to get to their seats. Mum brought the girls along and they really seemed to be getting into it. They all had to do exactly what the studio staff told them, standing up and cheering and waving banners in support of their favourites – well, in support of everyone, actually – and they had to boo whenever one of the judges said anything remotely derogatory, even if it was perfectly reasonable and constructive criticism. You know the sort of thing. Mum looked really nervous whenever the camera came near her. I suppose she was afraid Dad would spot them there, although he never watched shows like that, and wouldn’t watch me on principle anyway, so they were pretty safe. The girls had a really good time, which made me feel good. I so wanted them to be able to be proud of me. I was scared about what sort of things Dad might be saying about me to them. When I asked they said he never mentioned me at all, that it was like I had died, which made me feel bad in a different way.
Everyone in the audience was being so hyper and over-the-top, cheering everything and everyone, it was impossible to tell which songs or acts they’d really enjoyed the most. I knew we’d sung it well and I knew the audience had seemed to respond to the song, but I had no idea if the public would like it more or less than some of the other entries. Luke was even more nervous than I was. I suppose in a way he had more riding on it than I did. Once the competition was over I would be going back to work on The Towers, but he would have to hustle himself up another job. I mean, I wasn’t going to start feeling sorry for him or anything, I could just see it was really important to him. I could tell from how tightly he was squeezing my hand as we waited to hear the public’s verdict.
They told us later, privately, that they hadn’t announced the actual percentages of votes that had come in because it would have made the whole competition look pointless. Our song, apparently, swept the board. Close to a million people voted for it. A million fucking people bothered to pick up their phones and dial in, spending their money on having an opinion about a bloody song. People are amazing, aren’t they? I mean, fucking hell! What must it feel like to be voted in as prime minister of a whole country or something?
Chapter Seven
‘You treacherous little bitch. You’re no fucking daughter of mine and never will be again.’
The call from Dad had woken me up and so it was a good few seconds after he’d hung up before I actually worked out the full impact of what he’d said. I tried ringing his number back, but he’d switched the phone off. It was the first time I’d heard his voice since leaving home and it brought back a million bad memories.
I wondered if he was angry because there’d been coverage of me and Luke in some of the papers over the previous few days. I’d been praying no one would point the stories out to Pete before I’d had a chance to go round and explain things to him. I couldn’t really see why Dad should be so upset about that, though. I mean, I knew he’d liked Pete well enough, but not that well. Why would he care if I was going out with Luke? Luke wasn’t married or anything, was he?
It was Sunday morning, my one chance of a lie-in that week, and I attempted to get back to sleep, but my mind was too churned up by then. I slipped out of bed, trying not to wake Luke, and went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. The phone went again, this time from Dora.
‘I am so sorry, darling,’ were her opening words.
‘Sorry about what?’
‘I had no idea she was going to do that. She’s out of my classes for good, I can tell you, the talentless little cow.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dora.’ I was beginning to feel panicked now, like I was stuck in a dream where nothing anyone said to me made any sense.
‘You haven’t seen the papers?’
‘Of course not, you know I don’t read them if I don’t have to.’
‘That Tanya girl, the one who used to come to the same classes as you, she’s sold a story about you to the News of the World.’
A horrible coldness ran through me as I thought back to Dad’s call. Every Sunday morning his ritual was the same. Mum made him a cup of tea and then went down to the shop on the precinct to buy him a packet of fags and a News of the World to go with his breakfast. She was never allowed to read it until after he’d finished, so there was no chance she would have been able to censor anything she didn’t want him to see.
‘What kind of story?’ I asked, lighting a cigarette and dragging on it deeply.
‘That monologue you did the night Audrey and Tom were there, about your mum and dad. She’s sold that as a story.’
‘Fuck! How does she know I didn’t make it up?’
‘Apparently she’s going out with a boy who lives on the same estate as your family. He confirmed that everyone around there knows your dad beats up your mum.’
‘The newspaper just took their word for it?’
‘No. They sent reporters down there knocking on doors. Everyone confirmed it.’
‘Jesus. You make him sound like some kind of monster. He isn’t that bad, he just can’t handle his drink.’
‘The press don’t like wife-beaters, even if they only do it once.’
‘They went to all that trouble just to write a story about Dad thumping Mum when he’s had a few?’ I was having real trouble getting my head around it.
‘Not only that. They’ve splashed it across the front page. Do you want to come round here? They’re all going to be on your doorstep within an hour or two, looking for a follow-up.’
If it was across the front page Mum probably had seen it first, and must have known that she had no option but to give him the paper because if he didn’t get it he would know there was something wrong and would create a real stink. That must have been a truly scary moment for her, and bloody humiliating to know everyone would be talking about it.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’m at Luke’s; they don’t know where I am.’
‘I’m surprised none of them phoned you last night.’
‘I switched my phone off until about one in the morning.’
I checked my missed calls the moment I hung up on her and sure enough there were dozens of them, none of them from numbers I recognised. How come these bastards always seemed to be able to find my number when they wanted it? By the time Luke woke up and came looking for me I’d been crying for an hour solid. Him sitting down and putting his arm around me just set me off again. I don’t think I’ve ever cried
so much for so long, shaking with sobs. It was fucking exhausting. There were so many reasons, but mainly I felt so bad for having hurt Mum and Dad like that. What happened between them was their own business. I might not always like it, but it was nothing to do with me if that was what their relationship was like. I couldn’t blame Tanya for talking to the papers; she’d only done the same thing I had when I used them as raw material for my monologue. I should never have talked about private family matters in front of strangers. I’d used my mum and dad to entertain a crowd, to show off my acting skills. Dad was right, it was unforgivable and there was no way now I could undo the damage I’d done. Now everyone on the estate would be looking at them in a different way. It didn’t matter that most of the men in most of the families we knew were just as handy with their fists as Dad was, some of them much worse. What mattered was that they’d been shown up in public by their daughter, one of the people who should have been protecting their privacy at all costs. Betraying your family was a far worse sin than throwing a few punches.
‘What about your mum?’ Luke asked. ‘How will she feel?’
‘She’ll be gutted,’ I sobbed. ‘She will be so embarrassed.’
‘OK.’ He held me tight as he talked. ‘First thing, you need to send her a quick text, saying you’re so sorry and asking her to ring you.’
‘What if she doesn’t ring?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I’m going to go out and get the papers so we know exactly the extent of the damage. Will you be all right for a few minutes?’
‘I’m not going to top myself or anything, if that’s what you mean.’ I managed a feeble smile and he kissed the top of my head as he got up.
‘Very pleased to hear it.’
By the time he came back with his arms full of newspapers, I hadn’t moved an inch, although I had sent the text to Mum like he suggested. He laid them out on the table, made a pot of coffee and started reading. After a few minutes I mustered my courage and came to sit next to him. He gave me a grin of encouragement and passed over a Sunday Mirror. The front page carried a picture of him and me in a clinch at a club. It was a nice picture and a nice story, talking about how we’d fallen for each other on the programme.
‘Not all bad news, you see,’ he said and I nodded, still not feeling strong enough to read the News of the World story.
I thumbed my way half-heartedly through the other papers, finding pictures of Luke and me together in virtually all of them. It was like we were the nation’s sweethearts, everyone happy for us that we’d found each other. I could almost hear ‘Summer Wine’ playing sickly sweet in the background to our terrifyingly public romance.
‘It’s not that bad,’ Luke said eventually, having finished reading the whole exclusive. ‘It really isn’t. They’re really sympathetic to you and your mum. It’s going to make the public love you even more. Everyone loves someone who’s had troubles in the past and has overcome them.’
‘This isn’t some fucking country and western song,’ I snapped. ‘This is my mum and dad’s life.’
‘I know, I know.’
Over the following few hours Luke did a brilliant job of calming me, although there was nothing he could do to raise my spirits. I still felt sick to my stomach at what I’d done, but he showed me that it didn’t have to be the end of the world. ‘Today’s news is lining tomorrow’s guinea pig cages’ and all that.
One or two journalists tried to get through on the mobile, but I didn’t answer any numbers I didn’t recognise. Usually I tried to be polite to them when they managed to get me, but it still pissed me off. They were always so fucking charming, like they were my best friends, and then they would print complete crap, making up things that I knew perfectly well I’d never said. That was the worst thing about the News of the World piece: every word of it was true. It was like Tanya had been running a tape recorder that evening at Dora’s. How could she remember everything I said so accurately? It was spooky, a bit like the way I was able to remember the lines from favourite movies and programmes.
Mum’s call came through at about three in the afternoon. Hearing her voice made me want to cry again. ‘You all right, honey?’ she asked.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’
‘I know, baby. Have you had any lunch?’
‘Luke’s made me some breakfast. I’m not that hungry.’
‘Listen, honey, I’ve made a pie. I’ll bring some over for you this evening, about seven. You make sure you’re there.’
‘OK, Mum.’
‘She’s bringing over pie,’ I told Luke as I hung up.
‘There you go,’ he grinned, ‘so how bad can that be?’
I laughed. ‘I guess.’
I was determined to be home in time for Mum’s visit and I didn’t want Luke to be there. This wasn’t the moment that I wanted to introduce them. I wanted to have Mum all to myself for a few hours. I just wanted to cuddle into her and feel her arms round me and maybe do a bit more crying. I wanted to be her baby again, so she would forgive me. It was already dark by six o’clock when the minicab dropped me off outside my front door and I looked anxiously around for reporters. There didn’t seem to be any. I had my front-door key ready in my hand to make a quick dash in. There was a streetlight just outside, which sort of illuminated the front garden like a little stage. Well, when I say ‘front garden’ I mean a few square feet of paving stones, which was where I left my dustbins for collection. There was one shrub, which had got a bit overgrown, but that was the only garden-type thing about the area really. Pete must have been sitting on the wall behind the bush and the bin, waiting for me. I didn’t recognise him for a second and he gave me a fright, appearing out of nowhere as the cab drove off. He was wearing a hood and a thick padded jacket, but he was still shivering from the cold, or maybe it was from nerves, or possibly a bad comedown.
Thinking for a second I was being mugged, I screamed, which made him jump too.
‘Jeez, Pete, you scared me.’
I felt another lurch of nausea in my stomach. I’d been telling myself I would go round to see him and break up with him properly for so long that I’d almost got used to the feeling of guilt that lurked constantly at the back of my mind. The whole thing with Mum and Dad had pushed him right out of my mind over the previous few hours, but now the guilt came rushing back.
‘You fucking whore!’ he spat, and that was when I saw the gun in his hand.
His eyes looked wild and a bit frightened. It seemed strange to see someone I’d known for so long and so intimately, playing such a weird, grown-up role, like a character in a movie. He was such a great guy, always so cool at school, always making me laugh in class, always performing and joking for the crowd. Everyone had envied me when I first started going out with him; it was a bit like going out with a local hero. Everyone had expected him to become some big recording star.
‘You’re all over the fucking papers with him.’
‘I’m sorry, man, I meant to come and tell you.’ I was surprised by how calm my voice sounded, like I was some sort of counsellor, talking him down off a roof somewhere. ‘Please put the gun away.’
‘You’ve made me look like a dick, man.’
I could hear footsteps behind me but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Pete. There was a flash of light, and then another as Pete raised the gun. A fucking photographer? Where the fuck did he come from? Pete let off a couple of shots and I dived for cover behind the little wall separating the pavement from the garden, the explosions ringing in my ears. Everything was confusing. I saw more flashes coming from the man’s camera and was aware that Pete was shouting obscenities at him. Then he was running away. My shoulder was hurting from where I’d hit the paving and as I looked up I saw there was someone standing at a bedroom window on the other side of the street, holding up a video camera. Jesus Christ! Give me a break!
The photographer didn’t bother to pursue Pete, turning his attention to me as I struggled to get up off the pavement, firing off
shot after shot as I tried to work out what had happened and what I should do. He didn’t offer help and I didn’t ask him for any; there didn’t seem any point – he had to get his pictures, he had to do his job. I knew enough by then to know what the score was going to be.
In the fall I’d dropped my front-door key and I had to scrabble around on my hands and knees trying to find it as the camera kept whirring and flashing at me from different angles. It seemed like an age before I found it, managed to pull myself to my feet and lurch towards the door. The man with the video was still standing at his bedroom window, but no one else seemed to have been attracted by the shots or the flashing of the camera. I struggled to get the door open and fell through it, slamming it behind me before I slid to the floor, panting for breath, too shocked even to cry.
Chapter Eight
Over the next few hours, things went from bad to fucking disastrous. I was just sitting on the floor in the hallway, unable to pull myself together enough to even phone Luke. I’d got the phone out but my hands were shaking uncontrollably and I couldn’t trust myself not to cry if I got through to him. It wasn’t so much Pete who had got to me, as the photographer. I mean, I could understand why Pete should be mad with me; I was quite surprised it hadn’t happened before, but then he always had been a bit slow to pick up on what was going on around him. I hadn’t realised he’d got a gun, but I wasn’t that surprised about that either, given some of the people he did business with sometimes. But how could anyone have behaved like that photographer? How could you just keep taking photographs of someone who’s lying on the pavement and not say anything? Not even offer to help? I mean, I know he had to have his pictures – fair enough, it’s how the man earns his living. But, once he had them in the bag, couldn’t he at least have helped me up and asked if I needed a cup of tea or something? I mean, it’s not every day someone’s ex-boyfriend pulls a gun on them in the street. I suppose not having any heart is how they are able to take pictures in war zones or in places where everyone is starving. Maybe that’s the only way you can stay sane when you are faced with mountains of dead bodies and starving babies. Maybe a fallen television celebrity comes into the same category of ‘man-made disaster’ as far as they’re concerned.
