‘Right,’ she says, waving away the last cameraman. ‘Show Songs Week is where we sort out the men from the boys.’
‘Told you,’ says Bart Smedley. ‘Musical theatre isn’t just a walk in the park, you know.’
‘Shut up, Bart,’ says Nikki. ‘We haven’t got time for —’
‘Excuse me,’ says Elizabeth McQueen. ‘Can I ask you something, please?’
‘What is it now?’
‘Could I not do a folk song this week?’
Nikki’s smile twitches at the edges. ‘I thought we talked about this. Phantom of the Opera is perfect for you. In fact, that’s really what this morning is all about. You see, I like to think of week two as ‘getting to know you’ week. Who can tell me what I mean by that?’
If anyone deserves to win The Tingle Factor, it’s Twilight. Yesterday, on the way to the shopping mall, most of the others were acting all silly about riding in a limo, but Twilight wouldn’t even talk to me because she wanted to save all her energy for her fans. ‘Talent can only get you so far,’ she says now, flicking through her notebook. ‘At some point you have to start sharing the back-story.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ purrs Nikki. ‘But before we start, I want to make one thing very clear. Unlike some shows, we are not in the business of shameless exploitation. I’m not interested in your sob stories. I’m looking for something . . . inspirational; something you’ve had to deal with perhaps; something that will show the public exactly what you’re all about. Now who’s going to start the ball rolling?’
‘People used to make fun of us because we were different,’ says Yvette from UP4IT.
‘People used to make fun of us because we were exactly the same,’ says Trevor or Ashley.
Nikki nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes, both of those have potential, but I really need something more specific. Anyone?’
‘How about when someone pushes you off a table because they’re jealous of your talent?’ says Bart.
Nikki bares her teeth. ‘For the last time, Bart, it was an accident. And if you persist in making these unfounded allegations, I’ll be forced to have a quiet word with our lawyers. Now, someone else please.’
Elizabeth McQueen has her hand up.
‘It’s all right, Elizabeth,’ says Nikki. ‘I think we can all imagine the cross you’ve had to bear. How about you, Phil?’
Phil Carvery squirms uneasily on his PE mat. ‘It’s not something I really like talking about.’
‘Go on,’ says Nikki.
‘Well, a few years back, my wife, Carol, was involved in a nasty car accident.’
‘We’ll get her into the studio next week,’ says Nikki. ‘Was there any permanent damage – some scarring perhaps?’
‘No, thank goodness,’ says Phil, with a huge smile. ‘My Caz is right as rain now.’
‘I’m so pleased for you,’ says Nikki. ‘Right, who’s next?’
Twilight’s account of her mum’s illness is so heart-breaking that even the twins sit open-mouthed, trying to take it all in. It kind of explains a lot. Now I know we’ve got something in common.
‘I’m sorry,’ sobs Twilight. ‘Do you mind if I take a break? This is all a bit . . .’
‘You poor wee girl,’ says Elizabeth McQueen, crawling across the PE mats and handing her a crumpled handkerchief.
‘And I thought I’d had it bad,’ shrugs Phil Carvery.
‘Thank you, that was perfect, Twilight,’ says Nikki dreamily. ‘Now come along, Matt; you’ve heard the others. What have you got for me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing will come of nothing,’ says Nikki, her face deflating like a punctured beach ball. ‘Have another go.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t really know what to say.’
‘Then you’d better think of something,’ says Nikki, coldly. ‘If you still want to be here next week that is.’
Too right I do. Nikki keeps reminding me that if I get to the final I could have any girlfriend I want. And no prizes for guessing which particular girl I’m thinking of. But I can’t talk about Mum – at least, not here in front of that lot. There’s only one person I want to share my back-story with; the one person who could possibly understand. That’s why I make a pact with myself: If you’re really serious about her, you’ve got to tell Twilight.
It’s not until the afternoon that I get my chance. Our tutor, Mr Packham, whose lessons get duller by the second, tries to explain that an oxymoron is a ‘figure of speech in which two contradictory terms appear side by side, like “act naturally” or “pretty ugly”’. When he asks for examples, I come up with ‘Mr Packham’ and ‘hair’ but things turn nasty when Bart suggests ‘nice Twilight’ and she hits back with ‘talented Bart’.
It all gets a bit personal, so Mr Packham decides that before the taxis arrive to take us to the fashion show, it might be best if we pop down to the health suite to cool off with a swim. Bart’s arm is still in plaster, so Mrs Magwicz takes him shopping for new tap shoes while the three of us head down to the basement.
Twilight comes down here every morning, but I didn’t pack for a two week holiday in Ibiza, so I have to borrow some trunks from the personal trainer guy. Mr Packham soon falls asleep on one of the loungers, while Twilight glides effortlessly through the chlorine-scented water and I splash about, trying not to get out of my depth.
‘I know about your mum,’ I say, when she gets back to the shallow end. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me.’
‘What are you talking about?’ says Twilight, who looks so much healthier without her make-up. ‘Has Bart been —?’
‘I knew you didn’t hate her.’
Twilight spits out a mouthful of water. ‘You must have misheard me. I never said I —’
‘It’s OK, I understand, it gets like that sometimes. I’m not saying I’ve been through everything you have – how could I? – but I have got a pretty good idea what it feels like.’
‘You have?’
Telling her is so much easier than I thought. ‘My mum’s got multiple sclerosis. Dad and her split up, so I have to act as her carer sometimes. It’s no big deal or anything, but it can be a bit full on sometimes – especially when she has a flare-up.’
‘Oh right,’ says Twilight, sounding relieved that someone else is in the same boat. ‘Wait a minute. Why didn’t you tell Nikki about this?’
‘I’m not as brave as you are,’ I say, trying to keep my eyes above the waterline. ‘I just find it very difficult to talk about. Why, do you think I should tell her?’
‘No,’ says Twilight, just loud enough to make Mr Packham twitch in his sleep. ‘I mean, not if you don’t want to.’
‘Not really. I’d rather keep it to myself.’
Twilight smiles and places her hand on my shoulder; a tingle of electricity fizzes up my spine. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve told me. We can talk about it any time. It can be our little secret, if you like.’
‘Yeah . . . I’d like that.’
‘And anyway,’ she says, rolling on to her back and striking out for the deep end. ‘I don’t think it’s really the sort of thing Nikki was talking about.’
Bex
I should have guessed when I asked her, that Sue Layton’s life story would be well depressing.
‘We were in Paris, queuing for the Musée D’Orsay,’ she says, handing me a plate, which I rinse before passing it to Emily, who stacks it in the dishwasher. ‘Little Em was just a baby. Melvin thought I could do with a break.’
‘I’ve never been abroad,’ I say. ‘Except with the school – to see the war graves.’
‘You ought to go,’ says Emily. ‘Mum says travel broadens the mind.’
‘It started with a tingling feeling in my fingertips, like pins and needles. And then there was the dizziness, like the whole world was spinning and it was one hell of a job just to stay on my feet. Melvin put it down to too much French vino, but I knew there was more to it than that. So when we got back, I waited until Matthew was a
t nursery and made an appointment with the doctor.
‘Was it Dr Phillips, Mum?’ says Emily. ‘She’s nice.’
‘I can’t remember his name. But he said it was probably stress-related and sent me for a few tests, “just to put both our minds at rest”. Nothing was very conclusive, so it wasn’t until almost a year later that Dr Phillips called me into the health centre to break the news.’
‘She means that she had multiple sclerosis,’ says Emily, sounding like she’s practising a tongue-twister.
‘I didn’t know much about MS, only that a friend of my mother’s died of it, but it turned out I had the relapsing, remitting kind.’
‘That’s when it keeps coming and going,’ says Emily. ‘You’re OK for ages, and then when you get sick again, they call it a flare-up.’
Mrs Layton squeezes out a J-cloth and throws it in the sink. ‘I didn’t have my next one for another eighteen months. That’s what I hate most about the damned thing: it’s so unpredictable.’
‘Like when you really need a wee and you can’t stop yourself?’ suggests Emily. ‘Mum’s got a special card with I can’t wait on it.’
Mrs Layton lowers herself on to a kitchen chair, resting her crutches against the table. ‘It went on like that for the next five years. But then the flare-ups started getting more severe – I’ve told you how Melvin reacted to that bloody wheelchair – and the recoveries were never quite as complete. It was like that song: every time it went away it took a little piece of me with it.
‘We’ve got something for you,’ I say, thinking it’s probably the perfect time. ‘Me and Emily have been working on it all week.’
‘Wait a minute,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘You asked me what it was like. You haven’t heard the worst part yet.’
‘Sorry, it’s just that we’ve —’
‘I loved my job, but I was having so much time off, it just wasn’t fair on my students – so I chucked it in. That’s when I started getting a bit . . .’ She waves in the direction of her coffin. ‘. . . obsessive. That’s when Melvin decided to hit the road.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Matthew told me.’
‘He thinks it’s all my fault, of course. He’s so ashamed of me. Why do you think he’s never mentioned me on that wretched TV show? Why do you think he hardly ever bothers to return my texts?’
‘I’m sure he’s just busy,’ I say, remembering he hasn’t called me in nearly a week.
‘And now Melvin’s business has gone tits up and we might have to sell the house,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I told him he should have done a proper SWOT analysis.’
‘A what?’ I say, wondering if it’s something to do with computer games.
Emily looks at me like I’m a complete drongo. ‘SWOT stands for strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats. Every new business should do one.’
‘Never mind that,’ I say. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you, Sue. We were going to show you at the weekend, but it looks like you could do with cheering up right now. Why don’t you go out and get it, Emily?’
‘Yesssss!’ says Emily, almost throwing herself out of the back door.
‘Well, come on,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Don’t keep me in suspenders. What’s the big secret?’
I so want her to love it. She seemed like a bit of a cow at first, but once you get to know her, she’s all right. ‘It was a joint effort,’ I say. ‘I did the designs and Emily picked the colours. Well, you said how much you hated it.’
‘Da-da,’ says Emily proudly, as she wheels it into the kitchen and parks it in front of her mum. ‘Well, what do you think?’
Sue Layton is lost for words.
‘We’ve “pimped” your wheelchair,’ I say. ‘You thought we were doing Emily’s homework, but we were out in the garage getting it ready for you.’
‘Look, Mum,’ says Emily, walking around it, like the bloke who sold Dad his new van. ‘It’s got a horn,’ (she parps it) ‘wing mirrors so you can see what’s behind you, and we painted it silver and gold so it looked like a Roman chariot – that was my idea. Do you like it Mum? Do you like it?’
‘Come on,’ I say sounding just like the bloke who sold Dad his new van. ‘Why don’t we take her for a spin?’
Sue Layton is so happy she can hardly speak.
‘Get that bloody thing out of here,’ she whispers. ‘What were you thinking? Look, I’m sure you meant well, but my life is not a game, you know. A wheelchair is a wheelchair is a wheelchair; just because you’ve slapped on a few coats of tacky silver paint, doesn’t mean I’m going to be seen dead in it. Now please, take it away.’
Matthew
Twilight’s been loads friendlier since I told her about Mum. She keeps asking if I’m OK, and saying how special it feels to be sharing a secret with me. Life could hardly be better.
I don’t like my song this week either, but I’m having so much fun I don’t even care. I’ve been gunged on children’s TV, hung out with some actors off that soap Dad used to watch, done a photo-shoot for a major high-street fashion outlet and now here we are on the red carpet, outside the cinema in Leicester Square, at the premiere of that big 3D movie about the alien who falls in love with a human and transforms himself into a giant butterfly so he can save the world from global warming.
The paparazzi are all over Elizabeth McQueen. It’s lucky she hasn’t got epilepsy because all that flash photography is like a DIY strobe effect. Phil Carvery is getting a lot of attention too, and the twins are squirting the guy from Newsround with their water pistols.
And then something incredible happens. ‘Let’s walk in together, shall we?’ Twilight takes my arm and steers me across the red carpet towards the television cameras. ‘Don’t forget to smile,’ she says, planting a kiss on my cheek as every lens in Leicester Square seems to turn in our direction.
Three and a half hours later, the limo drops us outside the Celebrity Conservatoire. And to tell you the truth, I’m ever so slightly fed-up. The 3D effects were a bit rubbish, and Twilight wouldn’t sit next to me with all the cameras about. I tried telling her they wouldn’t dare take any photographs during the movie, but she didn’t want to risk it, and I ended up next to Bart Smedley who kept complaining about the wooden acting.
Twilight flies up the steps towards reception as soon as the guy in the peaked cap lets us out of the limo. The twins do that ‘funny’ thing where they pretend to get stuck in the door and I’m just trying to catch up with Twilight when someone grabs me round the neck, pulls me back down the steps and into the alleyway that leads to the tradesman’s entrance.
‘Get off! Get off me!’ I scream.
Nikki says you’re not a real celebrity until you meet your first stalker, but this is horrible. Whoever it is is way stronger than me, so I give up struggling and start begging. ‘Please, just tell me what you want. I’ll do . . .’ But it gets a hundred times worse when he loosens his hold and I realise who it is. ‘What are you doing here?’
His eyes are wild and staring and his breath stinks of takeaway Chinese.
‘Look, leave me alone,’ I say, breaking away from him and trying to brush the creases out of my new white suit. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘Don’t be like that, son,’ says Dad, who looks pretty ridiculous in the old denim jacket that Mum told him to donate to Oxfam. ‘I just wanted to congratulate you, that’s all.’
I’m not sure whether to hug him or kick him where it hurts. ‘Really?’
‘I watched the show on Saturday. I’m so proud of you, Matthew.’
Actually, the beard kind of suits him. ‘Thanks, Dad. Nikki – she’s the producer – says she’s going to let me do one of my own songs soon.’
‘Good,’ says Dad, suddenly sounding a whole lot chirpier. ‘Because that’s what I want to talk to you about.’
He was always much more into my music than Mum. He’s even got a mega rare twelve inch single of ‘Pretty Vacant’. I know I said I never wanted to see him again, but it just feels right somehow. ‘Whic
h one of my songs do you think I should do?’
‘No, son,’ says Dad, fumbling in his denim jacket. ‘That’s not what I mean. I want to talk about Nikki Hardbody.’
‘Eh?’
He hands me one of his business cards. ‘That woman’s a TV legend. Give her this, will you? Like I said, I watched the show on Saturday and I thought the graphics were looking a little bit tired. Tell her I’ve got a great idea for some new idents.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ I say, screwing up his card and throwing it back at him. ‘I thought you cared about me.’
Dad reaches down into the gutter and picks it up. ‘Of course I do, Matthew. That’s why I’m so desperate for some new work. If Instant Graphixication goes under, I won’t be able to support you and your mum any more.’
‘Just like you supported us when you walked out, you mean?’
‘That was different,’ he says, shrinking into his jacket like a humiliated tortoise. ‘You know how difficult things were. And anyway, I didn’t walk, I was pushed.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I say, turning away and walking towards reception.
‘Believe whatever you want to believe, son. But please, just do this for me. We really need the money.’
‘Oh come off it, Dad. Everyone knows you’re loaded. What was it you got for the last job?’
‘All gone,’ he says, stepping towards me, and looking hurt when I keep on walking. ‘Look, your mother was right, I never should have gone freelance. Honestly, son – you should see the way I’m living now.’
‘You’re a liar,’ I say, choking on a mixture of snot and tears as I stumble towards reception. ‘Now sod off and leave me alone. You made your decision when you abandoned us.’
And that’s when I start running; down the alleyway, up the steps, through the revolving door, past the girl on reception who’s started smiling at me and into the lift. When the doors open, I start running again and I don’t stop until I come to a halt outside a room on the ninth floor.
‘Can we talk, please?’
Twilight is wearing a purple dressing gown. I think I can smell burning. ‘Is this about your mother?’ she says anxiously.
The Bex Factor Page 10
