The Bex Factor

by Simon Packham

  ‘This is, possibly, the worst moment of my life,’ he says. ‘You guys have been absolutely magnificent, and I wish I could save both of you. But that’s not possible, so I think I’m going to . . . I think I’m going to . . .’

  ‘Sorry, Justin, we’re running out of time,’ says Willow Strawberry, who’s almost crying herself.

  Matthew looks like he’s given up already; almost as if he knows he’s going out.

  ‘OK, OK,’ says Justin, ‘I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to save . . .’ And he pauses for about fifty million years.

  Matthew

  ‘This is serious, Matt,’ says Nikki Hardbody, who has called me up to the penthouse suite for a breakfast meeting. ‘I saved you last week, but I can’t do it again.’

  ‘You can’t?’ I say, hypnotised by her t’ai chi moves.

  ‘It’s all on the audience vote in the semi-final,’ she says, directing traffic in slow motion. ‘The bottom two acts go out automatically.’

  ‘I’ve been working on a new song. Maybe I could do that.’

  ‘I don’t think so, luvvie.’ She grabs a towel from a palm tree. ‘If you really want to stay in the Conservatoire, you’ve got to start working with me.’

  ‘I thought I was.’

  ‘If that revolting Carvery person makes it to the final, I’ll have to top myself. And as for those evil twins . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll work harder this week.’

  ‘Of course I can oil the way for you. There are one or two back-stories out there that the public really should know about. And Ugly Betty might think she’s unstoppable, but even she’s going to struggle with ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?’.

  ‘Supposing the judges really like her again?’

  ‘The judges will like who I tell them to like.’

  ‘You mean, you actually —?’

  ‘Shhhh,’ says Nikki, putting her index finger up to my lips. ‘We haven’t got time for survivor guilt. Now come on. What have you got for me? A little snippet about the real Matt – and I’m not talking about a disastrous woodwork lesson.’

  ‘Well . . . it’s my fifteenth birthday on Sunday.’

  ‘That’s sweet,’ says Nikki, patting me on the head, like a poodle. ‘We’ll have a little party. I’m sure a few C-listers will be available at such short notice. Now think carefully. Have you got a girlfriend somewhere that you’re not telling me about? Most men have.’

  I don’t have to think long. ‘No . . . sorry.’

  ‘Fifteen and never been kissed,’ says Nikki. ‘I think I feel a heart-warming romance coming on. Leave it with me; I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Is that it, then?’

  ‘Now listen carefully, Matt. This adolescent secrecy has got to stop. We need to meet someone from your family or you haven’t got an earthly. All the others have got their pathetic little possés with them – apart from Twilight, of course – now it’s up to you. How much do you want this?’

  ‘A lot,’ I say, surprised at how much I mean it. At first, it was all about Twilight, but just lately, I’ve been dreaming about winning the show too.

  ‘Good. So you’ll have something sorted by Wednesday’s production meeting?’

  I’m so confused. Things have been going great with Twilight since we decided to make Mum’s MS ‘our little secret’. I mean, Mum would hate being on the show, anyway. I’d be doing her a favour really.

  But supposing that’s what it takes?

  And then I remember the horrible school concert where Mum hobbled in late on her crutches.

  This is impossible. What in the name of John Lennon and Yoko Ono am I going to do? One thing’s for certain: sooner or later, I’m going to have to pick up that phone.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, still wishing I could find another way. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  Bex

  Sue Layton is watching the six o’clock news. ‘That’s what I want,’ she says, sounding even more depressed than yesterday. ‘A bit of dignity.’

  I haven’t really been following, but it looks like the lady in the wheelchair is posing for the press. ‘What’s she so happy about?’

  ‘She’s got MS. The High Court has ruled that if her husband takes her over to Switzerland for an assisted suicide, they won’t prosecute him.’

  ‘And that’s something to be happy about?’ I say.

  ‘Well, yes, it is actually,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘If I end up totally incapacitated, I want to know I can end it all without someone going to prison just for helping me.’

  ‘But it’ll probably never happen,’ I say, wondering if Emily’s too busy playing the Sims on the NetBook to take any notice. ‘You’ll probably die of old age.’

  ‘Who am I kidding anyway,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘As if anyone cares. I mean, look at Matthew: he’s never once mentioned us on that bloody TV show. And you know why, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I —’

  ‘It’s because he’s ashamed of me.’

  ‘No, he’s not,’ I say. ‘He asks about you all the time.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Bex. Surely even you can see I’m his guilty little secret.’

  ‘What, so you want him to talk about you on The Tingle Factor, yeah?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ she says. ‘But it’s his birthday on Sunday. It would be nice to know he’s still thinking of me.’

  ‘He will be, I’m sure,’ I say, already racking my brains for the perfect present. ‘You told me yourself he’s a “real boy” when it comes to showing his feelings. I could talk to him if you like.’

  And that’s exactly what I do as soon as I get home. But Matthew doesn’t sound that pleased to hear from me.

  Matthew: I’m busy, OK. We’re shooting the video for the charity single tomorrow. What do you want?

  Bex: I need to ask you a favour.

  Matthew: I told you, Bex. If that friend of yours wants another autograph she can get it from publicity like everyone else.

  Bex: It’s not that. I want you to promise me something, yeah?

  Matthew: What?

  Bex: Promise me you’ll mention your family in the show on Saturday.

  Matthew: Why would you want me to do that?

  Bex: It doesn’t matter. Just promise me, OK.

  Matthew (bitterly): Oh yes. I promise all right.

  Bex: That’s brilliant, thanks. Your mum’ll be —

  Matthew: Look, I’ve got to go. They don’t want Phil Carvery on the charity single, so I’ve got to learn all his lines.

  He rings off before I have a chance to ask him about them, but I’d really like to know if some of the rumours are true. Every day there’s a new story about The Tingle Factor in Dad’s newspaper. First it turned out the twins might have been drug dealers, and then yesterday Phil Carvery was on the front page. He seemed like such a nice guy, but I don’t think many people will be voting for him now they know he was driving the car that crippled his wife – especially as he’d probably been drinking.

  ‘Oi, Bex,’ shouts Kyle. ‘It’s Shezza.’

  ‘Send her up,’ I call, hoping she doesn’t still want me to blag tickets for the final.

  ‘Look at this,’ says Shezza, bursting into my bedroom and waving the paper at me like I’m an annoying wasp. ‘I knew that girl was a whatshername in sheep’s clothing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  She hands me the paper. ‘Page four,’ she says, looking at me as though someone’s died. ‘I’m sorry, Bex. I’m not enjoying this, you know.’

  I flick through until I find the picture of how Matt and Twilight might have looked ‘enjoying a quiet smooch in the VIP lounge of an exclusive London nightclub’.

  Even though the body of the bloke in the picture looks at least three inches taller than Matthew, I still feel kind of empty when I read the headline:

  THAT’S WHY THE BABY

  LOVES THE VAMP.

  Matthew

  We shot the video for ‘Greatest Love of All’ at London Zoo. Twilight was brilliant with
the kids from the hospice, pointing out the rarest lizards in the reptile house and encouraging them to sit next to her in every shot. But halfway through filming, Nikki decided that the children didn’t look sick enough, and we had to wait over an hour for their replacements to arrive.

  That’s why we’re late when we pull up outside a kebab shop on Archway Road. Nikki jumps out of the cab, followed by the film crew. ‘This had better be worth it, Matt,’ she says, pressing the entry-phone for the flats above the shop.

  ‘I’m just coming down,’ says a crackly voice.

  At least Dad has shaved. ‘Hi, son.’ He nods, as we step into the smelly hallway.

  ‘You must be Mervyn,’ says Nikki. ‘Matt’s lovely father.’

  ‘It’s Melvin, actually,’ says Dad, his tongue almost hitting the floor. ‘And you must be Nikki. I love your work.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ says Nikki. ‘Now, perhaps you’d like to give us the tour.’

  ‘It’s not much I’m afraid,’ says Dad, leading us up two flights of rickety wooden stairs. ‘This is it, our humble abode.’

  He’s not joking either. I didn’t believe it when he said he was skint, but looking round at this place, I’m starting to change my mind. There’s a bed under the window, a kitchen in the corner – only I’m guessing Dad doesn’t use it much because the whole flat is littered with takeaway cartons.

  ‘See that, Matthew,’ says Dad, who’s obviously spotted me studying the damp patch outside the toilet door. ‘I can watch television in bed. Cool, eh?’

  ‘I can see why you weren’t keen for us to come here,’ says Nikki, with a glint in her eyes. ‘It’s better than I . . . I mean, worse than I could possibly have imagined. Where do you sleep, Matt?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘We keep the camp bed in the cupboard,’ says Dad. ‘Now, can I get you a cuppa?’

  ‘No . . . Thanks,’ says Nikki, holding a tissue up to her mouth. ‘Now listen, Mervyn, has Matt told you what we’re looking for here?’

  Dad was a bit iffy on the phone, but when I told him he’d get to meet Nikki Hardbody, he eventually decided to go along with it. I’m not asking him to lie exactly, just to be careful which parts of the truth he reveals – like Mum’s MS, for instance. Twilight agreed it was the only possible solution and even though I’ve been having pangs of guilt ever since, I’m pretty sure it’s for the best.

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad, catching my eye for a second. ‘I think I know the kind of thing you’re after. Now where would you like me – in the armchair?’

  ‘Fab,’ says Nikki. ‘We’ll just set the camera running and you can talk for as long as you like. Don’t worry, you won’t recognise yourself when you see the edit.’

  Dad flops down in the armchair and clears his throat. ‘I know it’s been hard for Matthew . . . Matt, but I’m so proud of him. I’ll never forget the day he was born. It was one of those grey May mornings when . . .’

  Twenty minutes later, Dad runs out of steam. ‘Was that all right, Nikki?’ he says.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she yawns. ‘That was perfect.’

  ‘Look, before you go,’ says Dad, reaching down the side of the armchair. ‘We need to talk graphics.’

  ‘Do we?’ says Nikki.

  Dad hands Nikki another business card. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but I run my own graphics company – Instant Graphixication. Perhaps you saw the work I did for The Rawlplugs and Adhesives Channel. I’ve put together a few ideas for the next series of Tingle Factor. I’d love to talk you through them sometime.’

  ‘Super,’ says Nikki. ‘Tell you what, Mervyn – I won’t have a lot of time at the studios, so why don’t you pop into Matt’s party on Sunday afternoon?’

  Dad looks confused. ‘His what?’

  ‘It’s his birthday, isn’t it?’ says Nikki.

  ‘Is it?’ says Dad. ‘Yes, yes of course it is.’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk then,’ says Nikki, backing away from him. ‘I’ll send a car for you.’

  ‘See you on Saturday night, Matthew,’ says Dad, as I follow Nikki to the door.

  ‘Yes all right,’ I say, not really relishing the prospect of seeing him in the audience.

  ‘Oh and son,’ says Dad, sounding pathetically upbeat (which according to Mr Packham is probably an oxymoron), ‘thanks a lot for this.’

  Bex

  Emily begged me to stay for the semi-final. I’d rather watch it at home, but Sue Layton’s been so fed-up this week, that I can’t wait to see her face when Matthew mentions his family tonight, like he promised me.

  ‘Perhaps we should all go to London tomorrow,’ I say, knowing she won’t be half as grumpy after she’s seen the show. ‘I’ve got Matthew a present and everything. We could go on the train.’

  ‘Can we, Mum?’ says Emily. ‘It would be so cool to see inside the Celebrity Conservatoire.’

  Mrs Layton shakes her head. ‘Look, I told you, I’m not leaving this house while I still need that wheelchair. Now for God’s sake, let me watch in peace.’

  ‘Welcome to semi-final week,’ says Willow Strawberry, waiting for the cheers and explosions to die down. ‘The atmosphere in the studio tonight is electric. But before we meet the judges’ (‘We love you, Justin,’ shouts someone in the audience) ‘we thought you might like to see what’s been happening this week. Now, with so much at stake, you’d probably expect our contestants to be at each others’ throats.’ Willow Strawberry winks at the camera and raises her eyebrow. ‘So no one was more surprised than yours truly, when a little bird told me that love was in the air.’

  ‘Look,’ says Emily. ‘It’s Matthew.’

  ‘And that’s the Twilight girl, isn’t it?’ says Mrs Layton.

  The whole audience goes ‘Ahhh’ when they see the stupid, slow-motion sequence of Matthew and Twilight walking past a load of penguins to a song called ‘It Must Be Love’. He stares geekily at her while she flicks hair out of her eyes and smiles. Then there’s a short interview with Twilight where someone asks if she and Matthew are an item. ‘That would be telling,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘But we’re having a party for his birthday tomorrow afternoon. He’s fifteen, and never been kissed. Let’s just say – if I’m still in the Conservatoire tomorrow – I might just have to put that right.’

  The audience goes, ‘Whooo’.

  ‘Why don’t we go to the party?’ I say, surprised at just how jealous I feel. ‘I could give Matthew my present.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I have no intention of leaving this house,’ says Mrs Layton.

  Twilight sings ‘The First Cut Is the Deepest’. At the end, she bites into the neck of the boy dancer and fake blood dribbles down his bare chest. I know I should hate her, but when she tells the story about spending Christmas in intensive care with her mum, I can’t help hoping she makes it to the final. Not that there’s any doubt about it: Phil Carvery even gets a few boos and Justin tells Elizabeth McQueen that he had a good idea what everyone in the audience was thinking when she started singing ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?’

  ‘Next up is the lovely Matt,’ says Willow Strawberry. ‘Apart from a certain lady vampire,’ (She raises her eyebrow – again.) ‘Matt’s also been thinking about another very special person this week. Take a look at this.’

  ‘I wonder who she’s talking about?’ I say, looking across at Mrs Layton and feeling dead excited for her.

  Weird thing is, she doesn’t look that excited herself. ‘God give me strength.’

  ‘Look, Mum,’ says Emily. ‘It’s Dad. What’s he doing on the telly?’

  The camera picks out a skanky pair of underpants on the radiator before turning to the man in the armchair who’s got Matthew’s nose. He fiddles with his wedding ring and speaks straight into the camera: ‘I know it’s been hard for Matthew . . . Matt, but I’m so proud of him. He’s all I’ve got left. You see, I had it all, lovely family, beautiful wife, my company – INSTANT GRAPHIXICATION – was really successful, but then everything started to go wrong. You see I
was . . .’

  And when it’s over, Mrs Layton can hardly speak. ‘How could he do that to me?’

  I pretend not to notice, but she cries all the way through ‘I Don’t Want To Talk About It’. As soon as Matthew finishes, the camera picks out his dad in the audience. He’s wearing an I’m a FaMATTic T-shirt, and sobbing like an actress at the Oscars as he leads the whole audience in a standing ovation. After a performance like that, his son’s place in the final is guaranteed.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ says Mrs Layton, zapping her husband with the remote. ‘I don’t care how bloody stupid I look. They are not going to get away with this. Emily, go and do your teeth, we need to be up early. Bex, go and make sure my wheelchair’s ready. We’re going to London tomorrow.’

  Matthew

  Dad filmed all my parties before Mum got ill, but it still feels strange with all these cameras about. The breakfast telly weather girl sings ‘It’s Raining Men’, which is kind of random, and the presenter of that cookery programme, where they have a food fight at the end if he doesn’t like your recipe, wheels in a massive, guitar-shaped cake.

  Everyone brought really cool presents – apart from Dad who got me a box of Liquorice Allsorts – and I manage to catch up with Justin before he slips off to the airport. ‘Thanks very much for my present, Justin.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Perhaps you could show me how to use it sometime.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he says, spotting his driver by the smoked salmon. ‘Sorry, got to go. What I did I get you anyway?’

  ‘An iPad . . . and a 42 inch telly,’ I call after him across the crowded ballroom.

  According to Nikki, the place is crawling with celebrities. I recognised a few of them from that reality show Stunning Cows, about a group of bitchy models who have to take over an abattoir. But to tell you the truth, it all feels a bit empty without Twilight. She said she was going to make herself look beautiful for me (like that could take longer than two seconds) and I’m dying to see her.