Matthew stares into the pouring rain. But I’m the one who should be pulling miserable faces here. I’m the one who’s had her dreams crapped on from a great height. And all because that self-centred idiot can’t think of anyone but himself.
He wouldn’t understand. I’ve lived for this since I was ten years old. It’s not just about the money. It’s not even about the fame – who doesn’t want to be famous, anyway? It’s because I really, really love The Tingle Factor. All I’ve ever wanted is to be a student in the Celebrity Conservatoire. All I’ve ever wanted is to be mentored by Justin or Brenda – or even that new judge they haven’t announced yet. If I only got as far as Basic Training it would still be the happiest time of my life.
Like that’s ever going to happen now. My mood gets even blacker when we turn into Parkview and Dad starts pointing out the flash cars. ‘You know what you two ought to call yourselves?’ he says, pulling up outside a huge house with a row of trees in the front garden. ‘Posh and Bex!’
‘Thanks a lot, Mr McCrory,’ says Matthew jumping out and starting the cross country run up the driveway. When he gets to the front door he freezes for a moment before turning and giving me a stupid wave.
I’m much too proud to wave back, but not so proud that I don’t wind down the window and shout at him, ‘Call me if you change your mind.’
What was I thinking, anyway? Kids like me don’t get famous. This was my one chance. With Matthew backing me, I could have been something really special. I mean, I’ve got an OK voice and everything – better than OK. But let’s face the facts: without his guitar playing, I’m just another wannabe.
Matthew
I know how furious she is when I walk in and find my sister Emily painting an angel on the gruesome cardboard thing that sits permanently on the dining-room table. Mum bought it off the internet just before Dad left. She always gets the paints out when she wants to make me feel guilty. No wonder I don’t bring friends home any more.
‘Where is she?’ I say, hoping to avoid the inevitable post-mortem until supper’s ready.
‘Went upstairs for a lie down,’ says Emily, adding a halo and a pair of sunglasses. ‘Hey, Matthew, look what Dad got me.’ She points at a miniature badger in a sailor suit. ‘Isn’t he cute?’
‘Yeah . . . nice. What did he want anyway?’
Emily’s smile turns down at the edges. ‘They sent me to my room so they could have a “little chat”, but I couldn’t make out exactly what they were shouting about.’
‘Guess what?’ I say, trying to cheer her up. ‘This . . . friend of mine’s going on The Tingle Factor.’
‘I think she’s getting a migraine,’ whispers Emily, glancing up at the ceiling and gnawing on her thumb.
So I run out to the kitchen, put some water on to boil and chuck some organic vegetables into the wok. I’m just adding black pepper when I hear an ominous humming sound followed by the click, click, squeak that’s like a stiletto to my heart.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ she says, hovering over the Aga like one of those spiders that eat their young.
‘Sorry, Mum. Something came up.’
‘You expect me to believe that, do you?’
I tear off a sprig of fresh basil and try not to lose it. ‘Sorry, should have texted you. I went home with this girl from school.’
Mum laughs like a pack of hyenas. ‘Now I know you’re lying.’
‘It’s true. She wanted me to play the guitar for her.’
‘Yeah, right. And where does she live? This imaginary girlfriend of yours?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not really,’ says Mum, clicking over to the table and lowering herself onto a chair, ‘considering she doesn’t exist. Look, I’m not stupid or something. I know you were just avoiding your father.’
‘So what?’
Mum collapses in a heap on the kitchen table. I reach for the kettle.
‘I needed you here, Matthew. Was that really so much to ask?’
‘Sorry. What did he want, anyway?’
‘The thing is,’ says Mum, balancing a kiwi on top of the fruit bowl, ‘we need to start cutting back.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But Dad’s got shed loads of money.’ It’s true, he has. You might not have heard of his company (Instant Graffixication) but I bet you’ve seen the graphics they did for that new leisure channel where the barbecues turn into shopping trolleys that turn into giant robots playing Frisbee with a satellite dish. He got 250k for that.
‘Why does he hate us so much, Mum?’
‘Of course he doesn’t hate us. And he’s not lying either. There just isn’t the work out there. They’ve already had to move out of those offices.’
‘What does “cutting back” mean, anyway?’
Mum tugs at her short brown hair. ‘Well, we won’t be able to renew your phone contract for a start.’
‘No way,’ I say, tipping some wholewheat pasta into the boiling water. ‘I get unlimited internet. And what am I going to do without my apps?’
‘Look, we’re all going to have to make sacrifices, Matthew. I’ll be giving up my acupuncture and Emily certainly won’t be riding any more.’
‘What was that about riding lessons?’ says Emily, walking into the kitchen with yellow splodges and a look of complete horror on her face.
‘Not you as well,’ groans Mum. ‘Bloody kids. It’s me, me, me the whole time.’
I’m getting worried now. ‘And what happens if this cost-cutting thing doesn’t work? He’s not going to sell the house and make us live on the Dogshit Estate, is he?’
‘Hardly,’ says Mum, almost smiling for the first time tonight. ‘But we might have to do some serious downsizing.’
‘It’s not fair,’ whines Emily. ‘Mrs Potter says I ride like an angel.’
‘For God’s sake,’ screams Mum. ‘Anyone would think it was my fault. Do you honestly believe I enjoy all this? Do you? Do you?’
‘Kettle’s boiled,’ I say, pretending not to notice that her eye’s gone wonky. ‘How about a nice cup of camomile tea?’
Mum slips into super-mad level Xtreme. I know she can’t help it, but I really hate it when she’s like this. ‘I’d give anything to go back to how it was before. But that’s not going to happen, is it? So you’d better get used to it. And I’ll tell you what’s unfair: me being like this. I just feel so . . . useless.’
Emily cowers by the dishwasher. ‘Mummy, don’t.’
But I’m too slow to stop Mum sweeping the fruit bowl off the table. A mountain of organic kiwis tumbles onto the kitchen floor.
After I’ve wrapped the splinters of shattered glass in The Financial Times, cleared away the supper things, dragged the wheelie bin to the bottom of the driveway and helped Emily with her evacuee’s diary, we all sit on the sofa and watch EastEnders.
‘God, their lives are so miserable.’ says Mum, sipping her second cup of camomile tea.
Emily is clutching the stuffed rabbit thing that she still insists on sleeping with. ‘Are you all right now, Mum?’
‘I’m fine,’ says Mum, stroking Emily’s hair. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, guys. I get so angry sometimes.’
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ says Emily, kissing her on the cheek. ‘We know you don’t mean it, don’t we, Matthew?’
‘Eh . . . what?’ I’m miles away. Well, about a mile and a half as the crow flies, but right now, Bex’s bedroom seems like another universe.
Mum just smiles. ‘The trick is to stay positive. Not to behave like a victim. Which reminds me, you haven’t forgotten about Saturday have you, Matthew?’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘We’re collecting outside Sainsbury’s.’
It’s the only time she ever leaves the house. I’ve done my best to forget about it, but the thought of another wet weekend in Sainsbury’s car park is suddenly more than I can bear.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I won’t be able make it this time.’
‘What do you mean you won’t be able to make it?’
‘Look, don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for tea.’
‘Back from where?’
Suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. ‘From London. I’m going to audition for The Tingle Factor with my imaginary girlfriend.’
Matthew
I’m standing on the steps outside the exhibition centre, underneath a giant inflatable of The Tingle Factor logo, watching a half-empty pleasure boat ploughing through the Thames.
I had to get out of the holding area. We’ve been there all day. Bex is OK I guess, but why did she have to bring her whole family with her? If you’d spent an hour in the back of a van with Kyle McCrory attempting to fart the theme tune from Star Wars, and an equally flatulent baby, you’d know why I need some fresh air.
But it’s not just that. When I’m with the McCrorys, it reminds me of Mum and Dad. Or how they used to be, anyway. The first time we came to London, we took an open-top bus ride and Mum pretended to be all embarrassed when Dad did a funny commentary for the Japanese tourists.
What am I playing at? I promised myself I wouldn’t waste another second thinking about him. Why would anyone in their right mind spend half their waking hours daydreaming about the man who ruined their life?
London’s a big place, I know, but wherever he is, he’s only a tube ride away. It would be so easy. I’ve still got his new address in the bottom of my guitar case. When he gave it to me, I tore it up and chucked it straight in the recycling bin. I only sellotaped it back together in case I wanted to stick dogshit through his letterbox or something. And in my head, I’m halfway to the tube station when I notice a black, hooded figure, gliding up the steps.
If this was a movie, we’d just be arriving at the slow motion sequence with the cool indie soundtrack. Dad vanishes, like a ‘stubborn stain’ zapped by the latest biological washing powder and an ice-cold finger doodles its way up my spine. I don’t do girls, but if I did, they’d probably look a bit like the one in the long black coat coming towards me, her pale skin so smooth she makes Bex look like the dark side of the moon, her blood red lips forming a strange smile that mesmerises me the moment she gets within spitting distance. And just as she’s about to glide past, she pulls back her hood and a waterfall of jet black hair cascades on to her shoulders.
‘Oi, matey,’ calls a faraway voice. ‘Bex is going bananas.’
‘Eh . . . what?’
‘Come on, Geez. Get your arse back in there.’
In my head, I’m still staring into her hypnotic green eyes when I realise that Kyle McCrory and his dad are slap bang in front of me. And they don’t look best pleased.
‘No worries,’ I say, trying to catch a last glimpse of the girl in black. ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Good luck,’ I say, squinting in the scorching lights. ‘Just do it like we did it in your room and you’ll be fine.’
‘Thanks,’ says Bex, looking really awkward in her little red dress and sparkly high heels.
Wherever you look there’s a camera, and the studio is teeming with clones in black T-shirts, whispering into matching headsets, scurrying around like worker ants.
‘OK,’ says the woman with the clipboard. ‘See that mark on the floor? Stand there and wait for the judges.’
Like I say, my sister Emily loves this show. I’m into real music, so I never watch all of it. But I usually abandon my Xbox for the last five minutes to check out who’s been evicted. That’s why I recognise two of the judges. The glamorous granny, getting her make-up fixed, is Brenda. She’s the sympathetic one who gives out hugs when Justin says something horrible. I don’t know the girl in the crop top, but Bex says she was in that girlband who did the song from that yoghurt advert.
Then of course there’s Justin. You’d have to be from another solar system not to recognise him. Right now he’s deep in conversation with the producer, Nikki Hardbody, who asked us all those strange questions this morning after a researcher picked us out of the crowd. The weird thing about her is that she never stops smiling. Actually, it’s more of a half smile, kind of like the Mona Lisa, but a bit scary. She whispers in Justin’s ear and retreats into the shadows.
‘All right, my darling,’ says Brenda. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’
‘It’s, er . . . it’s Bex . . . Bex McCrory.’
‘And how about your cute friend?’
Bex is trembling, like Mum on a bad day. ‘His name’s Matthew. He’s going to play the guitar for me.’
‘All right, Bex,’ says Justin, pouring himself a glass of water. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. What’s the dream here?’
Bex regurgitates all that stuff she told the producer this morning. ‘Well, I want a hit single, of course.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And three platinum albums, yeah? Before I’m sixteen. And then I want to crack the States.’ Her plan for world domination still sounds a bit out of character, but the judges seem to be loving it.
‘OK, my angel,’ says Brenda. ‘What have you got for us?’
‘I’m going to sing “Umbrella”, by Rihanna.’
Justin yawns and raises a trademark eyebrow. ‘Oh dear God. I wish people would be more original.’
‘Don’t listen to him, precious,’ says Brenda. ‘You take your time now.’
Bex stares at the judges, sweat glistening on her forehead. I come down hard on the first chord. Bex doesn’t even move. So I repeat the opening two bars, hoping she’ll get her act together. When she finally opens her mouth, all that comes out is a terrified squeak.
‘Come on,’ I whisper. ‘You can do this. I know you can.’
Although it’s not the best she’s ever sung it, by the time we get to the chorus and I’m singing along too, Justin is tapping his fingers. And I don’t want to jinx anything, but I’m pretty confident about the judges’ comments.
Jesamène, the one from the girlband, thinks it’s ‘all a bit karaoke’, and wonders what on earth Bex was trying to do with the dress. (‘Retro, only not in a good way.’)
Brenda reminds Jesamène that Bex is a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl and says she should ‘give her a break’.
Justin is quite keen on the singing, hates the song choice but likes the arrangement. ‘OK, guys. Let’s vote on this, shall we?’
It feels like really bad pins and needles, until I realise that Bex is digging her fingernails into the back of my wrist.
‘It’s a no from me, I’m afraid,’ says Jesamène.
Brenda gives Jesamène one of her filthiest looks. ‘And it’s a one million percent yes from me, honey.’
So Justin has the casting vote. He leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. ‘Let me see now . . .’
Bex starts begging. ‘Please, Justin. I won’t let you down, I swear . . .’
‘Look, no offence,’ says Justin. ‘I’m not sure your voice is up to it.’
‘I can work on that,’ says Bex, mopping up tears with the sleeve of her dress. ‘Please. This is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s my dream, Justin. Please. You’ve got to give me another chance.’
Justin glances into the shadows. ‘I don’t think so. Look, you gave it your best shot and it just wasn’t good enough.’
Bex’s face is awash with black rivers of mascara. ‘Please . . . please . . . this means everything to me . . .’
Justin shakes his head. ‘It’s a no from me too. I’m not going to lie to you, Rebecca. You seem like a nice kid, but “nice” doesn’t really cut it around here. I couldn’t tell you what The Tingle Factor is exactly, but take it from me, you definitely haven’t got it.’
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so disappointed. Even Mum has her anger to fall back on, but Bex looks like a shell-shock victim from those black and white films we saw in history. I sort of feel I ought to try and cheer her up; tell her a joke, pat her on the back or something.
But before I can think of anything, Brenda has jumped out from behind the jud
ges’ desk and wrapped her arms around Bex. ‘Don’t take any notice of him, petal. What does he know, anyway?’
Brenda and the guy with the handheld camera escort Bex off the set. I’m almost at the door myself when Justin calls out, ‘Nice guitar playing, by the way.’
By the time I get to the holding area, World War Three has broken out.
‘That was out of order,’ says Mr McCrory, waving his finger at the camera. ‘Justin ought to be ashamed of himself.’
Mrs McCrory offers her sobbing daughter a hand-sized pack of tissues from a OneStop bag. ‘Never mind, love. There’s always next year.’
‘Yeah,’ says her sister Natalie, playing aeroplanes with the flatulent baby and looking happier than she has done all day. ‘Don’t worry about it, Bex.’
Kyle McCrory is spitting blood. ‘No one treats my little sister like that. I’ll smash his face in.’
All this shouting reminds me of Mum and Dad. But just when the noise is becoming unbearable, I see something that turns it instantly into a distant hum.
It’s the girl in the black coat.
Is it me, or is it really hot in here? Blood races to my cheeks as I reacquaint myself with her cool, white features. Thank goodness the McCrorys are still creating the mother of all diversions. It gives me the chance to edge a little closer and try and hear what she’s saying.
Her voice is as cool as the rest of her. ‘I don’t care if it does save time. I am not a number, all right? If you want me, the least you can do is call me by my proper name. It’s Twilight, OK?’
‘Whatever,’ says the woman with the clipboard.
‘Can you believe that?’
My heart starts beating in triplets when I realise she’s talking to me. ‘Er . . . well . . . I . . . er . . .’
‘I know it’s a cattle call and everything, but this is a joke.’
‘Oh . . . yeah.’
‘Great guitar,’ says Twilight. ‘You need something to make you stand out around here. And I’m not talking about the guys in the chicken outfits.’
‘Oh no, I’m only here to . . .’
‘Do you know where the loo is? My face must be a mess.’
The Bex Factor Page 3
