The Bex Factor

by Simon Packham

  ‘That’s what I used to think.’

  Matthew’s mum nods jerkily. ‘Well, I reckon they treated you very badly, Bex.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mrs Layton,’ I say, trying not to gawp at her eye. ‘It wasn’t that bad really.’

  ‘It sounded pretty grim to me,’ she says. ‘Matthew told me all about it.’

  ‘Did he? Oh well that’s good then, because that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I thought you said you only had a couple of minutes,’ says Matthew. ‘Hadn’t you better get moving?’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘What do you mean, that’s why you’re here?’

  Matthew races round the table and starts tugging at the back of my chair. ‘Bex is just leaving, aren’t you, Bex?’

  And that’s when it hits me. ‘You haven’t told them, have you?’

  ‘Told us what?’ says the kid with the rabbit.

  ‘Just leave it,’ Matthew says. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into.’

  ‘No, come on,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘What’s he hiding from us?’

  I thought I was doing him a favour here, but from the way Matthew’s looking at me, you’d think I’d trashed his guitar and made a scale model of Canterbury Cathedral out of the pieces. ‘The judges didn’t like me. They didn’t like my singing and they didn’t like the way I looked.’

  ‘We know that,’ says Mrs Layton, impatiently.

  ‘They didn’t like me, but they loved Matthew.’ It still hurts when I say it out loud. ‘They wanted to take him through to Basic Training as one of the solo acts.’

  A stuffed rabbit flies into the air and a small girl screams, ‘Yeeeeees!’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ says Matthew. ‘I told them I couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Matthew didn’t want to upset me,’ I say, ‘but I’m fine about it, I promise. The producer gave me her mobile number. If he calls her tonight, they’ll save a place for him.’

  The girl with the flying rabbit starts dancing round the kitchen. ‘Matthew’s going on telly. Matthew’s going on telly.’

  ‘Shut up, Emily,’ says Matthew, smashing his fist down on the table. ‘You know as well as I do I can’t do it.’

  The little kid stops dancing and looks over at her mum. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘Why?’ I say. ‘You’d have a great time. If you got into the Celebrity Conservatoire, you could be off school for over a month.’

  ‘Exactly. So just drop it, OK?’

  ‘Not until you tell me what the problem is.’

  ‘Yes, go on,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I think you’d better explain.’

  ‘All right.’ Matthew walks slowly to the sink. ‘I can’t do it because of her.’ He wrings out a J-cloth and starts wiping down the work surfaces. ‘It’s not her fault or anything, but I can’t do it because Mum’s got MS and I’m her carer.’

  ‘MS?’ I say, thinking that apart from the crutches she looks OK. ‘What does it stand for again?’

  ‘Multiple sclerosis,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘The disease that never stops taking.’

  ‘Stop it, Mum,’ says the kid hugging the rabbit.

  Mrs Layton isn’t listening. ‘Well, come on, Matthew. Aren’t you going to tell her about the “wonderful” things you do for me?’

  ‘I don’t do that much really, Mum,’ says Matthew.

  ‘Exactly,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘So why don’t you run off to join the circus and leave me in peace? I can see you want to.’

  Matthew twists a strand of hair around his index finger and pulls it into his mouth. I kind of feel like giving him a hug or something, but he looks well hacked-off. ‘Mum gets a bit depressed sometimes.’

  ‘Yes and I wonder why?’ says Mrs Layton, starting to cry.

  The kid with the rabbit hands her a tea towel. ‘It’s her medication,’ she whispers. ‘The stuff they give her when she has a flare-up. Mum’s really nice . . . most of the time.’

  ‘I just have to do a few more things around the house,’ says Matthew. ‘It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Couldn’t you get someone else to help out?’ I ask. ‘Just for a few weeks?’

  Rabbit kid looks at me like I’ve totally lost it.

  ‘We have had a few part-time carers,’ says Matthew, ‘but none of them lasted longer than a week. Mum can be a bit of a perfectionist.’

  ‘Bloody impossible, you mean,’ says Mrs Layton, crying and laughing into a National Trust tea towel.

  I know I’m a nosy cow, but I just can’t help myself. ‘What sort of things do you do then? Take her out and that?’

  ‘Mum hardly ever leaves the house,’ says Matthew. ‘She’s got a wheelchair, but she won’t use it.’

  ‘Who’s “she”?’ says Mrs Layton, ‘The cat’s mother? Look, I can talk for myself, you know.’ Her face softens as she smiles at her son. ‘Matthew’s been really good since their father left. The truth is, I can be a bit of a nightmare – especially when I’m having a flare-up. That’s when he helps with the cleaning, gets all the shopping we can’t order online, does most of the cooking and still manages to put up with me when I throw a wobbly.’

  ‘And he takes me to school everyday,’ chips in Rabbit Girl. ‘Don’t forget that.’

  ‘He even gives me my injections,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I’ve got this silly needle phobia.’

  And I so should reply, ‘Yeah, me too’, but something else slips out, something I’m really not expecting. ‘I could do all those things. I’ve looked after my sister’s baby before. Why don’t I take over from Matthew for a few weeks?’

  Matthew

  The vocal coach takes the final fifty through a warm-up onstage while the judges loiter at the back of the auditorium with their mobiles. I cling tightly to my guitar, dodging cameramen, doing my best to hit the high notes and surreptitiously checking the crowded stage for the main reason I let Mum and Bex talk me into this.

  Once Justin is happy with his make-up, they herd us into the stalls and we wait for our final chance to impress the judges. I’m not on for ages, so I settle back into my plush velvet seat and kind of let it wash all over me.

  ‘Hi,’ says the girl in the long purple dress. ‘My name’s Yvette, this is Mary . . .’

  ‘And I’m Beth,’ says the one wearing glasses.

  All three of them put their hands together like they’re praying. ‘And we call ourselves The Holy Joannas.’

  I don’t know if it’s because Yvette tells Justin that God is everywhere or just that they’re really good singers, but halfway through Amazing Grace, I start feeling guilty. You see, when Bex’s dad dropped me at the theatre this morning, I did something I’m not particularly proud of.

  It’s not that I’m ashamed of Mum or anything, but I hate it when people find out she’s ill. They either smother you with sympathy or laugh at you behind your back. That’s why I stopped writing songs with Curtis Morgan. It wasn’t because of ‘artistic differences’; it was because he kept asking me how she was. In fact, Bex is probably the first person who’s seen me and Mum together since we took Curtis to Pizza Express and she collapsed in the toilet.

  That’s why I did it. In the unlikely event of me making it any further than Basic Training, I don’t want anyone from the show to find out about her. So when the researcher handed me that form to fill in, I may have skimmed through most of it as quickly as the Call of Duty licence agreement, but I was really careful when it came to forging Dad’s signature and naming him as my next of kin. I knew his address would come in handy one day.

  And that’s not the only thing I feel guilty about. Today was the first day of term. Everyone at school will have watched Saturday’s audition show, and if I know anything about St Thomas’s Community College, they’ll still be giving Bex a hard time about it when she’s collecting her bus pass. Perhaps she’ll cope with the Year Nine comedians and the IT club wits, but I’m not so sure she’ll be able to handle Mum. Bex has promised to take Emily to school every morning, and pop in at teatime to help out with the
cooking and stuff. I’ve warned her about Mum’s mood swings and some of the stunts she pulls when she gets really stressed out, but how could I tell her about the grisly surprise lying in wait for her on the dining-room table?

  And that’s the thought that keeps running round and round my head until a tall girl in a short black dress glides on to the stage and I remember why I’m here.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ she says, ‘I’m sure you remember me. My name’s Twilight and I’m a vampire.’

  Bex

  School’s over, thank God. I’m halfway to the gate before Shezza catches up with me.

  ‘Oh pleeez, Justin. I’ll be your bestest friend.’

  ‘Shut up, Shezza. You’re getting on my tits.’

  ‘But Justin,’ she says, bursting into fake tears. ‘This means everything to me.’

  The kids at the bus stop start singing an out-of-tune version of ‘Umbrella’.

  ‘Yeah, come on, Justin,’ says Barry the Bus Driver. ‘It’s my dream.’

  And that’s what it’s been like all day. Even Mr Catchpole said I’d need to concentrate more if I wanted to crack the States.

  ‘Don’t get the hump,’ says Shezza. ‘I’m only having a laugh.’

  ‘Well I’m glad you think it’s funny.’

  ‘You should have bunked off, like your boyfriend, Matt.

  What a loser, eh?’

  They only showed the part where Justin told me how crap I was. They’re probably saving the really embarrassing bit for next week. ‘Look, he’s not my boyfriend, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  At the bottom of the hill, I realise we’re going in opposite directions. ‘I’ll see you later then, Shezz.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘What do you mean nowhere?’

  ‘I’ve got this . . . new job.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Part-time cleaner.’

  Shezza raises one of her carefully plucked eyebrows. ‘Do me a favour. You’re fourteen years old, Bex. That’s, like, totally illegal, that is. There’s more chance of your first album going platinum.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘Come on. Where are you really going?’

  ‘All right,’ I say, wondering how high she could get that eyebrow if I told her I was on my way to cook tea for Matthew Layton’s mum. ‘I’m going up the park to take some photos for my art project.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ says Shezza, smiling triumphantly. ‘Good old Miss Gifted and Talented, eh?’

  ‘Yeah . . . whatever.’

  ‘I’ll come with you if you like. We could hang out at the skatepark.’

  ‘No, you’re all right. I want to get a picture of that old tree by the duck pond. I’m going to take it from exactly the same angle every day for the next couple of weeks,’ I add hastily. ‘So I probably won’t be walking home for a bit. See you later, yeah?’

  ‘Hey, Bex,’ says Shezza, shuffling her non-regulation kitten heels. ‘I don’t care what Justin says. I thought your singing was all right.’

  The houses opposite the park start getting bigger and bigger. I start feeling smaller and smaller. What am I doing here? The closer I get to Matthew’s house, the harder it is to find an answer. Mum spent the whole holiday trying to make sure I knew what I was letting myself in for. Dad was like, Take your mobile, sweetheart, and make sure you call me if there’s a problem. Natalie reckoned I was out of my tiny little mind if I thought that any bloke would do the same thing for me.

  Why couldn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? I’m rubbish at food tech, I run a mile if I see a needle and I don’t know how to act around sick people. When my nan was ill, I couldn’t think of anything to say to her, so she kept sending me down to the hospital shop for magazines. But that’s just me, isn’t it? If I say I’m going to do something, I do it.

  OK, this is it. I slip in another piece of gum and start the long climb from the nest of wheelie bins under the oak tree up to the house. The moment I drop the heavy metal knocker onto the front door, I just want to run away.

  Nothing happens, so I knock again. Maybe she’s popped out or something. Except that, according to Matthew, she never leaves the house. I’m just about to do a runner when I hear chains jangling and a bolt sliding back.

  ‘Hi, Bex,’ says a little voice.

  You don’t know how relieved I am when I look down and see a small round face covered in big blue spots. ‘Hi, Emily.’

  She puts her arms around my waist and gives me a shy hug. ‘Mum told me you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Said I would, didn’t I?’ Emily takes my hand and pulls me into the hall. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Her legs are bad. She’ll be down in a minute.’

  I didn’t notice before, but there at the top of the stairs is one of those chairlift thingies that Nan always wanted. ‘Wow. That is so cool.’

  ‘It’s not a toy, you know,’ snaps Emily.

  ‘No, ’course not. What are you up to, anyway?’

  ‘I’m painting,’ she says. ‘Want to come and see?’

  She leads me through a room with books on every side into an even bigger room with a grand piano at one end and sliding doors at the other. ‘Have you heard from Matthew yet?’

  Emily shakes her head and slides open the doors. ‘He said he’d phone as soon as he knows. Do you think he’ll get through?’

  But as soon as I see what’s on the dining-room table it’s all I can do to stay upright, let alone speak.

  ‘Do you like it?’ says Emily, proudly.

  ‘Oh my God. What is that thing?’

  Matthew

  Twilight wows the judges with her version of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’. Jesamène loves the way she’s ‘taken the Goth thing and run with it’, Brenda thinks she could be the next Barbra Streisand and Justin can’t believe she’s only sixteen. You might think that fake blood trickling down her chin would be a turn off, but the moment I saw her again I knew I’d do whatever it took to spend some time with her.

  Because if you really want to know, I didn’t give a toss until Twilight arrived on the scene. I just kept thinking of the time Curtis Morgan told Demi Corcoran that ‘all boybands should be banned’. It was much funnier the way he said it. Curtis was the one who got me into vinyl. We spent our weekends scouring the charity shops for Bowie, Hendrix, Dylan and The Stones. Maybe it’s a good thing I had to stop hanging out with him, because he’d have had a fit if he found out I was going on The Tingle Factor. I’ve got zilch chance of winning, but now that I know Twilight’s here, I start taking more notice of the other contestants, trying to suss out my chances of making it into the final nine.

  The plumber guy who let Brenda ‘play a tune’ on his six-pack looks a pretty safe bet and everyone seems to like Bart, the blond kid who sings a Michael Jackson song about a rat. And then of course there’s Elizabeth McQueen, the lady with the hideous birthmark on her face. She’s already had about a billion hits on YouTube. No one could quite believe that someone so ugly could have such a beautiful voice. This time she does something from Phantom of the Opera and the whole panel gives her a standing ovation.

  That’s why I can’t help feeling slightly relieved when the backing track cuts out during Dubmaster Daffy’s hip-hop version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and the identical twins from Aberystwyth mess up their steps in the chorus of ‘Dancing Queen’. And that’s why I decide to take Nikki Hardbody’s advice and do something by The Beatles instead of one of my own songs. She says I’ll have plenty of time for new material once the public gets to know me better.

  I’m pretty shaky to start with, but halfway through ‘She Loves You’, I open my eyes and look out into the auditorium. The first person I see is Twilight, yawning and tapping her long black fingernails in time to the music. It’s just the boost I need. The judges seem to like it too. Jesamène says my hair is amazing, Brenda reckons I could be the next Paul McCartney and Justin thinks ‘we might just have found ourselves a
popstar.’

  And now for the moment of truth. The whole theatre falls silent as Nikki Hardbody comes to the front of the stage and flashes her teeth.

  ‘OK, guys, listen up. This is not one of those so-called talent shows where we deliberately set out to humiliate you. I think you all know what I’m talking about.’

  Some of the other contestants mutter knowingly.

  ‘Now I hope you’ve all remembered your suitcases because, as soon as we finish here, our nine lucky finalists will be going straight into the Celebrity Conservatoire.’

  I’ve only brought my school rucksack. I figured it was all I needed.

  ‘OK, this is how it works. We’re going to get you up here in groups of ten. As soon as you hear your name, I want you to form a straight line at the front of the stage. Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you. Now, if one of the judges taps you on the shoulder, you’re to take two steps backwards. If you’re still standing at the front by the time they get to the end of the line, it means you’ve made it.’

  The theatre buzzes with excitement.

  ‘There’s just one more thing, guys,’ says Nikki. ‘We need to be out of here by five o’clock, so once we’ve done a few reaction shots, could the rejects get down to the stage door asap? Right, let’s have Candy Ferrell . . . Bart Smedley . . . Missy Goodtime . . . Bux Night . . .’

  Bart Smedley is the only one in the first group to make it. He pumps his fist like that tennis player and then tries to get Missy Goodtime to join him in a victory dance. The next lot don’t take it quite so well. Dubmaster Daffy refuses to move until Justin practically pushes him into the orchestra pit, and Sweet Seventeen are still swearing at the judges when security arrives.

  Even though she was a cast iron certainty, I still get all tingly when Twilight goes through. Unlike some of the others, she doesn’t make a big song and dance about it, but smiles modestly and trundles her suitcase to the side of the stage. And it’s only when my name is called that I realise what a total disaster it will be if the nearest I ever get to Twilight is watching her on TV.