Bex: A bit? I only asked her if she wanted to go out shopping and she was like, ‘Get away from me, you evil person.’
Matthew: It’s that wheelchair. She says she hates the ugly thing.
Bex: What, even more than over-cooked broccoli?
Matthew: I could always come home, you know.
Bex: No, no, you mustn’t. Not when you’re having such a good time and everything.
Matthew: Oh . . . yeah.
Bex: Made any friends yet?
Matthew: Kind of. (Pause.) Hey, Bex?
Bex: What?
Matthew: You don’t think I’m creepy, do you?
Bex: Don’t be stupid. Who told you that?
Matthew: No one, it’s just . . .
Bex: I thought you were kind of geeky when I first met you.
Matthew: Cheers.
Bex: But you’re definitely not creepy. Whoever told you that just needs to get to know you better.
Matthew: Really?
Bex: Yeah, ’course. You’re probably just worrying about the show next week. Do you know what you’re singing yet?
Matthew: They’re not telling us until Monday.
Bex: Well, you’ll be fine. I’ll be voting for you anyway.
Matthew: Thanks, Bex. And thanks for doing all that stuff for Mum. She will get easier . . . promise.
Bex
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ says Mrs Layton, when she sees all the mess on the kitchen table. ‘I’ve endured three whole days of your execrable cooking and God knows how many minutes of your inane teenage banter, but if you really expect me to put up with that, you’re even more deluded than I thought.’
Kyle drops his trowel into the bucket and grins. ‘Awright?’
Mrs Layton drops into the chair and winces. ‘And who’s this – Frankenstein’s monster?’
‘He’s my brother,’ I say.
Kyle sticks out his arms and does a zombie dance. ‘Awright?’
‘No, I am not all right,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘What’s he doing here, anyway? I’m not sure I want him in the house.’
And that’s when I lose it. I’ve put up with her stupid moaning for three whole days, but if she really thinks she can get away with that, she’s even sicker than I thought. ‘God, you’re an ungrateful cow. You should actually be thanking him.’
‘What, for trashing my kitchen you mean?’
Emily is painting the mess a kind of yellowy brown. ‘He’s helping me with my science project, Mum. Kyle mixed some plaster to make the crater with, didn’t you, Kyle?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I see,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘And what is it exactly?’
‘It’s a volcano, of course,’ says Emily. ‘Named after Vulcan, the Roman god of fire.’
‘I thought it was that geezer with the big ears off the Star Trek movies,’ says Kyle.
Mrs Layton pulls herself up on her crutches so she can get a better look. ‘Yes, yes, I can see it now.’ She turns to Kyle. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .’
Kyle shrugs and slops another bit of plaster onto the side of the volcano.
‘It’s not finished yet,’ I say. ‘We’re going to build a little village at the bottom, yeah? And when it’s dry we’re going to get some vinegar and baking powder to make it erupt properly. Don’t worry, we’ll clean up and everything.’
Mrs Layton mops up a pool of poster paint with a tea towel. ‘Then we’d better get a move on because The Tingle Factor’s on in twenty minutes. Now, if Kyle here is joining us, perhaps he’d be good enough to leave his boots by the back door.’
The first part of The Tingle Factor (Road to Basic Training) is like watching a horror movie starring yourself as the main victim. When they break the news that it’s Matthew they want to go through to Basic Training and not me, there’s this massive close-up of my ugly face, which gets bigger and bigger until it fills every centimetre of the Laytons’ flat-screen telly and the zit on my nose looks like an erupting volcano. And yep, there they go – tears the size of tennis balls roll down my cheeks in slow motion when Justin moves in for the kill: ‘You’ve got about as much chance of winning The Tingle Factor as my dead grandmother.’
‘That man’s a monster,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘How dare he talk to you like that?’
‘I said I should have thumped him,’ says Kyle, grabbing another handful of organic crisps.
Next thing you know, the camera follows me down the corridor as far as the ladies’ toilets, where the voiceover man takes over: ‘They do say that singing in the bathroom can make you sound better, but surely that’s taking things a bit far!’
Talk about out of order. They’ve actually managed to make the worst day of my life look a million times more rubbish than it actually was. Everyone goes quiet. Kyle stops munching, Emily nibbles her fingernails, Mrs Layton bites her bottom lip and I look through the sliding doors at her coffin, kind of wishing I was lying in it.
But when Matthew tells the judges he only came to the audition because he wanted to support me, I start feeling better. And by the time he walks into Basic Training (looking quite cute in his yellow hoodie) I’ve recovered enough to join in with the others and give him a cheer. That’s the way it always is with this show – after five minutes, you’re hooked.
And there’s one contestant who stands out from all the rest. She’s cool, she’s confident, she’s gorgeous enough to make a supermodel vomit and I ought to hate her. But you know what? When Twilight tells the judges that all she ever wanted was to make her mum happy, you can’t help liking her.
‘I didn’t know Matthew was into The Beatles,’ says Mrs Layton, looking dead proud as her son starts singing. ‘I thought he was into all that miserable stuff.’
‘He loves them,’ I say. ‘“The White Album” is, like, his second favourite of all time.’
Mrs Layton cranes forward and squints at the screen. ‘Do you think he looks pale? I hope he’s eating all right.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘He told me the food was really good.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘He never tells me anything. How come you seem to know so much?’
‘He called me a couple of times that’s all. To find out how you were.’
‘Right, yes,’ says Mrs Layton, making a real effort to smile. ‘He probably didn’t want to worry me.’
Some of them do little speeches for the camera. Yvette from The Holy Joannas thanks God for the gift of music, and Dubmaster Daffy gives a big up to the Milton Keynes Massive, but all the others make a point of thanking their families for supporting them – all except Matthew, who mutters something about his guitar teacher.
‘I’m going to lie down for a bit,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I think I’ve got a headache coming.’
‘Don’t go yet, Mum,’ says Emily. ‘We’re just about to find out who else makes it through. Aren’t you going to stay to cheer Matthew?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Mrs Layton, speeding to the door on her turbo-charged crutches. ‘He’s made it perfectly clear that he can do without me.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’ I call, but she’s already strapping herself into the stairlift.
I’m kind of thinking I should go after her, when the first group of contestants starts lining up at the front of the stage ready to be judged.
‘Oh man, no way,’ says Kyle, smashing his fist down on the coffee table as Dubmaster Daffy gets the boot. ‘Call me when it’s over, yeah? I’m going to check this place out.’
Kyle disappears through the sliding doors. I should probably keep an eye on him, but I really want to see the next bit. ‘Don’t break anything, OK?’
‘Look,’ says Emily, who was dead chuffed when Trevor and Ashley, the identical twins, somehow managed to squeeze into the Conservatoire. ‘Here comes Matthew!’
Even though I know what’s going to happen next, I can’t help jumping off the sofa and screaming ‘Yeeeeees!’ when he finds out he’s going through.
It’s funny because he doesn’t look that bothered. The others throw themselves onto the ground, do silly dances or burst into tears, but Matthew just glances anxiously at the side of the stage.
‘Matthew’s a celebrity, Matthew’s a celebrity,’ sings Emily, wiggling her bum and looking happier than I’ve ever seen her.
She must really be happy, because after it’s all over and we’ve searched everywhere for Kyle, she laughs louder than anyone when he jumps out of her mum’s coffin and chases us round the table like a zombie.
Kyle and me are hardly out of the front door when my phone starts ringing. Shezza – who else? I bet she can’t wait to tell me what a loser I am. Five times I send her straight to voicemail, but the silly mare just won’t give up, so I turn my phone off instead. There are twenty-three missed calls by the time Mum’s finished drowning me in hot chocolate and I hurry up to my room to turn it on again.
Shezza’s call is five seconds earlier than I expected. This time I’ll have to answer it. If she gets all her best shots in now, things might not be so bad at school.
‘All right, Shezza?’
‘What are you playing at?’
‘I’m not playing at anything.’
‘Then why aren’t you answering your phone?’
‘I’m answering it now, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Bex, it doesn’t suit you.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, trying to sound dead cool, but failing miserably. ‘I must have turned it off by mistake. Not urgent, is it?’
You can almost hear Shezza sharpening her nails. ‘Yes it is, actually.’
‘So you saw the show, then?’
‘Too right I did.’
‘Well come on, Shezza. Don’t take all year about it. If you’re going to lair me off again why not just get it over with. It’s not like you can make me feel any worse.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that, babe,’ says Shezza, sounding like she actually she means it. ‘If you want my opinion, you weren’t that bad.’
‘Hang on a minute. What are you —?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me Matt had got through to Basic Training?’
‘Well, I —’
‘Jesamène said his hair was amazing.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘He’s got that cute little smile as well.’
‘I suppose it’s —’
‘Did you know he could sing like that?’
‘Yeah, ’course.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Shezza. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Not exactly, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘We could be on live TV,’ she whispers. ‘Do you think he could get us tickets for the final?’
It’s my turn to wind up Shezza for a change. ‘Yeah, ’course. I reckon he’d do anything I wanted.’
‘Why’s that then?’ says Shezza, suspiciously.
‘I thought you knew,’ I say, regretting the stupidest lie in the universe before it even leaves my big fat gob. ‘Matt’s my new boyfriend.’
Matthew
This morning sucked. I hate the song they’ve given me, I couldn’t pick up the choreography for the group version of ‘Who Let The Dogs Out’ and me, Twilight and Bart Smedley had to spend the rest of the time with our slaphead tutor Mr Packham, doing maths worksheets and discussing a rubbish poem about some old sailor who killed an albatross. Mr Packham claims he’s a writer, which is pretty unlikely considering how earth-shatteringly boring he is.
But none of that would matter if I could only get Twilight to notice me. Bex keeps saying if I want to make friends in here I should just be myself. But if a total character change is all that it takes to get a smile out of Twilight, then bring it on.
Lunchtime could be my best bet. Nikki Hardbody and The Holy Joannas are involved in a heated discussion over the salad cart, and the others have pulled their tables together in the middle of the restaurant and started playing to the cameras. Phil Carvery and the boys from Soul Survivorz do an acapella version of ‘I Gotta Feeling’ while Trevor and Ashley whizz around on a serving trolley pretending to be waiters and Roxanne (the ex-glamour model who just wants to be taken seriously) makes origami water lilies with the napkins.
No one seems to notice Twilight, sitting at the table by the window with only a tuna salad and a mineral water for company. So I make my way over.
‘Hi, Twilight. Anyone sitting there?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Is it OK if I eat with you then?’
‘If you must. But don’t come anywhere near me with that garlic bread.’
‘What, because you’re a vampire?’ I say, giving her a little wink to indicate that I’m being funny.
‘No, because it stinks. Now hurry up and sit down. If that Magwicz woman sees us she’ll want to come over and smother me again. I get quite enough of that from the wicked witch.’
‘Who’s the wicked witch?’
Twilight stabs a piece of tuna. ‘My mother, you idiot – the Beast of Benidorm.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ I say, swiftly despatching a mouthful of garlic bread. ‘I thought you said you loved her more than life itself.’
At least I’ve made Twilight smile for once. ‘The important thing isn’t telling the truth necessarily; it’s telling what ought to be the truth that counts.’
‘Isn’t that a bit —?’
‘Not that there’s much competition,’ continues Twilight, joining in the applause for Soul Survivorz as a cameraman walks past. ‘Boybands are so last century.’
‘What about Elizabeth McQueen? She’s had more hits on YouTube than the dog on the skateboard.’
‘Oh, please,’ says Twilight. ‘That woman should do us all a favour and start wearing a paper bag over her head – and as for that lot . . .’ I get a tantalising glimpse of her perfect white neck as she turns towards the salad cart where Yvette from The Holy Joannas has started to cry. ‘. . . Talk about who let the dogs out!’
‘What about the others?’ I say, trying to stop myself staring by concentrating on my rigatoni.
‘I suppose that brat, Smedley, is in with an outside chance. And then there’s you, of course.’
‘Really, you think I —?’
‘Oh, cut it out. No one buys your pathetic Mr Modesty act. You look relatively presentable, your guitar playing might just hide your deficiencies in the singing department and if you weren’t as desperate as the rest of them, you wouldn’t be here anyway.’
It’s the first nice thing she’s said to me. I get this silly urge to explain that all I really want is to get to know her better. ‘Actually, Twilight I —’
‘Excuse me,’ says a soft, lilting voice. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Elizabeth McQueen’s tray is piled high with both types of pasta and a selection of Danish pastries. I rack my brains for a polite way of getting rid of her. ‘Well, you see —’
‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ she says, ‘but it’s getting a wee bit noisy over there.’
‘Of course you must join us,’ says Twilight, with a welcoming smile. ‘I was just saying what a wonderful voice you have.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Twilight’s smile disappears when she sees Bart Smedley climb onto the long table and start tap-dancing. ‘Does he honestly think I’m going to let him get away with that?’
‘Yes,’ I say, trying not to look too impressed by his back flip. ‘It’s not very hygienic, is it?’
‘Sorry, Elizabeth,’ says Twilight, jumping to her feet. ‘Got to go, I’m afraid. But I’m sure Matt here will help you find a paper bag.’
‘And what would I want that for?’
‘I thought you might like to take some of those delicious pastries up to your room for later,’ says Twilight with a smile.
‘Good idea,’ says Elizabeth, looking slightly relieved as Twilight glides across the restaurant towards the others. ‘What a lovely girl she is.’
‘Ye
s, isn’t she?’
Elizabeth tucks into her pasta. I try really hard not to stare at that thing on her face. But it’s pretty impossible to ignore, and even though I try and time it so she’s twirling spaghetti, I’m sure she catches me taking a sneaky peak. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘That’s all right,’ she says. ‘I’ve had forty-five years to get used to it. Why don’t you have a good look now, and then we can talk about something more interesting.’
It’s kind of like someone’s splashed pasta sauce all over her face. I study it for a couple more seconds than I actually want to, so she won’t think I’m immature or anything, and then try to change the subject. ‘Are you enjoying it, Elizabeth? Doing the show, I mean?’
‘Of course,’ she says, doubtfully. ‘I’m having the best time of my life. But do you not find it a bit lonesome in here, Matt?’
I look across at the others. Bart Smedley seems to have fallen off the table and Twilight is helping him to his feet. ‘It is a bit lonely, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t even like the song they’ve given me. I told Nikki I’m really a folk singer, but she says that song from Titanic was practically written for me.’
‘I hate mine too,’ I say, secretly pleased that someone else feels the same way. ‘I actually wanted to do some of my own stuff.’
Elizabeth looks genuinely impressed. ‘You write your own songs then, Matt? I bet your mum’s right proud of you.’
‘Yes, kind of,’ I say, suddenly feeling guilty that I forgot to phone home this morning. ‘And I prefer Matthew, by the way. Matt’s just my . . . stage name.’
‘And I’m Lizzie,’ she says, wiping her fingers on the tablecloth and offering me her hand.
‘So what have they got lined up for you this afternoon, Lizzie?’
‘More interviews,’ she sighs. ‘I never know what to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if Archie was around.’
‘Who’s Archie, your husband?’
‘Archie’s my wee dog,’ she says, rummaging around in her handbag and pulling out a battered photograph of a battered mongrel. ‘Isn’t he bonny?’
I nod politely and reach for my Diet Coke.
‘I miss him so much,’ she says, mopping up the remains of her pasta sauce. ‘He’s kind, he’s loyal, he doesn’t care what you look like. But you know what he does best?’
The Bex Factor Page 7
