It’s been a hard week. Apart from learning two new songs for the final, and touring the country in The Tingle Factor Battle Bus, I’ve been trying to get my head around Twilight. She was happy to hold hands outside the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry and ride Nemesis with me at Alton Towers, but she wants to wait until ‘all this craziness is over’ before we take our relationship to the next level. Makes sense, I suppose. We’ll be able to get to know each other away from the media circus, and at least Elizabeth taught me to play Backgammon so – apart from Mr Packham’s lesson on the correct use of apostrophes – I was never bored on the bus.
Our esteemed head boy, Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams is waiting for me at community reception. He greets me like a long lost friend and pretends to ignore the camera crew. ‘Hello, Matt, great to have you back at St Thomas’s. They’re all waiting for you.’
Curtis Morgan always said school was a popularity contest that kids like us could never win. So why isn’t he here to see my moment of glory as I walk on to the stage? The banner with Matt Layton – St Thomas’s Finest looks like the work of Miss Gough and the art department, but you couldn’t fake that deafening roar. Even the Year Eleven boys stamp their feet and whistle and the girls scream and throw their sweatshirts at me. Most of them didn’t know who I was six weeks ago, and the ones who did wouldn’t exactly have crossed the street to pass the time of day. The only voice of dissent is Bex’s friend Shezza, who stands in the front row waving a placard saying, Love rat go home.
The demon headmaster finally gets them to calm down. He pats me on the back and pretends to ignore the film crew: ‘I’m sure you’d all like to thank Matt for taking time out of his busy schedule to be with his old friends at St Thomas’s. Our recent, highly successful Ofsted report showed just how far we’ve come in the last five and half terms and I’m sure Matt’s achievements can only emphasise the mission statement I put in place when I took over as your headteacher: “Holistic education for organic achievers”.’ He points at Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams, who’s operating my backing track on the school DVD player. ‘And now, without further ado, take it away, Matt!’
I’ve sung ‘The Final Countdown’ in every shopping centre in Great Britain so I can concentrate on checking out the audience. I can’t believe she’s not here. I know Bex was furious about the party, but I kind of thought she’d turn up to support me.
After the applause dies down, I stand behind a desk at the front, flanked by Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams and a couple of prefects, while they all line up with scraps of bog paper and their exercise books for me to sign. Even Mr Catchpole asks for an autograph (‘for my nephew’) and Miss Hoolyhan drops by to say well done and that she thinks it’s a pity I don’t get to play my guitar more. (Like I’m going to start explaining the ins and outs of the music business to the conductor of the wind band!)
After twenty minutes my wrist is aching, I can’t believe how many of them think we’re old mates, and I have to get out. ‘I need the loo for a second. Don’t worry, I know where it is.’
‘All right, calm down you lot,’ shouts Rob ‘The Slob’ Adams. ‘Matt’s going to take a short break. I don’t want anyone pushing in.’
Losing the film crew is a doddle in this place. I follow a familiar route across the courtyard, behind the rubbish bins by the canteen and past the all-weather basketball courts until I come to my old sanctuary. It’s kind of reassuring that the chess players and that weird girl who’s always reading still hang out at The Millennium Pagoda.
And there’s someone else I’m pleased to see. Curtis Morgan must have changed his image at least three times since we used to hang out. Just now he’s got this Emo-lite thing going. If you look really closely you can still see the remains of last weekend’s eye-liner.
‘Hi, Curtis, how’s it going?’
He takes out his ear buds. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in the hall with your groupies?’
‘What are you listening to?’
Curtis snorts and turns up the collar of his black trench coat. ‘I’m surprised you’re interested.’
He used to be my one friend around here. ‘Well, of course I’m —’
‘What happened to you, Matthew?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You were actually quite cool once; you were the only person who cared about music as much as I did. So how come you’re “having the best time of your life” in that soulless celebration of anti-talent?’
And I’m about to tell him that jealousy is a terrible thing, and that I don’t take lessons in coolness from someone who wears a trench coat in the middle of May, when I spot her, down by the temporary classrooms, heading towards the field. Even at this distance, I’d know Bex’s walk a mile off. ‘Sorry, Curtis. I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got to run. See ya.’
Bex
I hate the school field – it reminds me of rounders. But it’s the only place I can get away from the screaming. All week, Dad’s paper’s been full of Matt and Twilight this, Matt and Twilight that (blah de blah de blah) and it’s really getting on my tits. Shezza said I should come to the hall to heckle the ‘two-timing toad’, but I was like, Get a life, why don’t you? That’s not the real reason I’m angry with Matthew, anyway. Even though it’s as plain as the zits on my face that Twilight is so not right for him, I was never anything more than his pretend girlfriend – but don’t tell Shezza, yeah?
All I want is to get tomorrow over with. The rest of my family are really up for it, but if I hadn’t promised Sue Layton I’d push her wheelchair, I’d rather stay in and watch repeats of Newsnight.
‘Mind if I walk with you?’
Just for a split second, I’m pleased to see him. And then I remember how angry I am. ‘It’s a free country.’
We walk to the faded, centre line in silence.
‘I thought the football pitches would bring back bad memories, Matthew.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That penalty you missed.’
‘Ha, ha.’ When we get to the goalposts, he jumps up and touches the bar. He couldn’t have done that a month ago. ‘How’s Mum?’
‘Why haven’t you asked her yourself?’
‘I’ve been on the Battle Bus all week. It was mental.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I say, looking at the penalty spot and wondering how anyone could miss from there. ‘I saw you at Alton Towers.’
Matthew wanders on to the pitch and starts mumbling at his feet. ‘I just wanted to say . . . thanks for everything, Bex. I could never have done this if you hadn’t helped out with Mum. She is all right, isn’t she?’
‘I’m surprised you’re interested.’
He turns and kicks a crisp packet into the goal. ‘How come everyone suddenly knows what I’m interested in? Look, all I want to know is if my mum’s OK. You can tell me that, can’t you?’
‘She’s fine – no thanks to you.’ He doesn’t look as happy as someone who’s got a one in three chance of winning The Tingle Factor ought to. He might be several centimetres taller than when we first met, but he looks smaller somehow, and so miserable, I almost want to give him a cuddle. ‘Your mum’s OK. A lot better. She even tried a couple of steps without her crutches.’
‘Great,’ says Matthew, turning back towards school. ‘Look, they’ll be wondering where I am, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘So you’re really going to let her go through with it then?’
Matthew pulls up on the edge of the penalty area. ‘Let who go through with what?’
‘Your mum. You’re actually going to let her go on the show, yeah?’
Matthew shrugs and looks down at the balding grass. ‘She says she wants to.’
‘No, she doesn’t. She’s just doing it to please you.’
‘Why shouldn’t she, anyway? Like you said, Bex, it’s a free country.’
‘I don’t get you,’ I say, struggling to find the right words. ‘First you’re so ashamed of her you try to pretend she doesn’t even
exist. And now you want to make a fool of her on live TV. Nikki Hardbody’s just using her, can’t you see that?’
He laughs sarcastically and shakes his head. ‘Not you as well. Why can’t people just be happy for me? It’s only backstory, anyway, no big deal. And let’s face it, Bex, you would have done anything to get to the final. Don’t you remember: Pleeez, Justin, it’s my dream?’
‘At least I’d never use my mum’s illness to win a stupid talent competition.’
‘Well, you couldn’t, could you, because your mum’s not ill.’
We glare at each other across the penalty area. ‘You know how much she hates being seen in that wheelchair. If you don’t stop her, Matthew, I’ll never speak to you again.’
‘Whatever, it’s your loss,’ he says, starting the long walk back into school.
Just before Matthew gets to the Millennium Pagoda, a camera crew jumps out from behind the temporary classrooms and starts following him. A few seconds later, the weirdest thought pops into my head: I wonder why he’s wearing that T-shirt I bought him for his birthday?
Matthew
My dressing room is full of cards and flowers from people I’ve never met. The breakfast TV lady said the Prime Minister is a ‘faMATTic’, which seemed pretty cool until I found out that the sexy celebrity chef Dad fancies is an ‘Elizabethan’.
‘Leave us alone for a moment, would you?’ says Nikki Hardbody, holding the door open for my dresser. ‘I need a quick word with Matt.’ She studies her face in the mirror, looking pleased with what she sees. ‘Your guests have arrived in hospitality. Now before we go and see them, I want to make sure you know what’s happening.’
I don’t know if I’m more nervous about singing in the final or Mum and Dad being in the same room together. ‘You told me last night.’
‘Let’s just run through it one more time,’ says Nikki. ‘After you’ve finished your first song, Willow’s going to ask you why you should win The Tingle Factor. You say all the usual stuff: it’s what you’ve lived for since you were a foetus, best day of your life, da dee da dee da, and then you come out with the coup de grâce.’
‘Coup de what?’
‘The death blow, darling. As soon as you tell them you’re doing it all for your wonderful mother, and that little chav friend of yours wheels her down the aisle, Ugly Betty won’t have a prayer.’
‘You said it was just backstory.’
‘Of course it is,’ says Nikki, ‘and if that doesn’t wreck the old swamp donkey’s chances, I’ve decided to let her have her own way and finish with a ghastly folk song.’
‘Isn’t that a bit unfair?’
‘What would be unfair is if I let that horrendous woman come between my two babies. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Are you . . . helping Twilight too?’
‘Twilight doesn’t need my help. Face it, Matt, her backstory makes your sorry little saga look like The Sound of Music. And in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s drop dead gorgeous. But of course you have,’ adds Nikki with a wink. ‘And I’m sure your lovely girlfriend would want you to be the best that you can be.’
I had to put a good luck card under Twilight’s dressing room door because she’s keeping it locked while she warms up for the show. ‘And you really think Twilight and I could work together?’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ says Nikki impatiently, ‘but we need to get tonight over with first. Now come on, let’s go and meet the parents.’
Just as we’re about to head off to hospitality, the door swings open and a grey-haired lady in a frilly blouse and purple cardigan storms into my dressing room. ‘I’m looking for Victoria,’ she says accusingly, like I’m hiding this Victoria person under the sink.
‘Well, you won’t find her here,’ I say, wondering how she got past security. ‘Would you mind getting out of my dressing room? I’m trying to prepare for a show here.’
‘Don’t you take that tone of voice with me, young man,’ says the lady in purple. ‘I was a justice of the peace.’
‘I’ll handle this, thank you, Matt,’ says Nikki Hardbody, who’s really good at dealing with difficult punters. ‘Why don’t you wait in my office, madam? You’ll find it much more comfortable there. I’ll try and find a runner to help you track down this . . . Victoria. We can drop you off on our way to hospitality.’
Dad is the first to greet us at the door. ‘Hello, Nikki, lovely to see you again. Did you have time to look at those ideas I biked over?’
‘Not now, Mervyn,’ says Nikki, rescuing her hand from Dad’s sweaty grip. ‘As you can see, I’m rather busy.’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Dad. ‘Catch you later.’
Most of the McCrory clan has gathered around the refreshment table. Kyle is showing Emily how many hula hoops he can fit in his mouth and the rest of them are taking it in turns to entertain the flatulent baby.
‘All right, Geez?’ splutters Kyle. ‘Good luck for later, yeah?’ The rest of them offer words of encouragement before returning their attention to the flatulent baby; all apart from Bex, who’s standing under the monitor whispering with Mum, and totally refuses to catch my eye when Nikki drags me over.
‘Hello, Matthew,’ says Mum, who’s wearing that black trouser suit she had for school.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, kind of wanting to kiss her, but not wanting to at the same time. ‘Hi, Bex.’
Bex shakes her head and stares at the back of Mum’s wheelchair. Did I mention how ridiculous it looks with wing mirrors and all that silver paint?
‘Hello, Sue,’ says Nikki. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I just want to talk you through what’s going to happen later.’
‘Listen carefully, won’t you, Sue?’ says Dad. ‘What Nikki doesn’t know about television isn’t worth knowing.’
‘Thank you, Melvin,’ says Mum. ‘When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.’
Nikki steps in front of Dad, pushing him firmly to one side. ‘We don’t want to pre-empt a wonderful moment by having you in the studio audience, so you’ll have to watch the show from here. As soon as Matt introduces you, the lovely Bex . . . It is Bex, isn’t it?’
Bex grinds her teeth.
‘The lovely Bex will push you through that door and on to the studio floor,’ says Nikki. ‘Don’t worry, there’ll be someone on hand to give you the signal. Now, can you do that for me, Sue?’
‘No,’ says Mum triumphantly.
Dad almost drops his plastic cup of white wine. ‘Come on, Sue; you’re not going to be difficult, are you?’
‘I don’t need Bex to push me,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve been practising at home and I’m sure I can make it to the stage under my own steam.’
‘That’s great, Mum,’ I say, slightly guilty that I’m feeling kind of relieved. ‘I’m really pleased.’
Nikki doesn’t look at all pleased. ‘I don’t think so, Sue. I really think it would be much better if we stick to the wheelchair.’
‘But why?’ says Mum. ‘I can do it. I know I can.’
Nikki checks her face in Mum’s wing mirror. ‘I don’t think you understand, Sue. It’s a question of what makes for the best television. Help me out here, Mervyn. It’s obvious from those ideas you sent me that your visual sense is second to none. What do you think?’
Dad stares at Mum for what seems like a fortnight, crunching his empty wine cup into a little white ball. ‘I think if Sue says she can walk, then you should let her do it.’
‘Listen, Sue,’ hisses Nikki. ‘You don’t want to let sonny boy down, do you? If you walk on to that stage looking like every other middle-aged mother in the country, you won’t be doing Matt any favours. But if whatsherface pushes you on in that wheelchair, you’ll be giving him just the boost he needs. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Oh I understand all right,’ says Mum.
‘Let’s ask your son, shall we?’ says Nikki, stepping in front of me and flashing her teeth. ‘Trust me, Matt, it’s for the best. And I’m sure young Twilight would sa
y the same thing. Come on now, spit it out. You want your mum to ride in the wheelchair, don’t you?’
Hospitality falls silent. Even the flatulent baby stops gurgling for a second. Every head in the room seems to turn towards me as I nod half-heartedly and whisper, ‘Yes.’
‘Idiot,’ mutters Bex.
‘All right, then,’ says Mum. ‘If that’s what you want, Matthew, wheelchair it is.’
I can’t bear to look at her, but I still feel Mum’s sad blue eyes burning into the back of my head. All she wanted was a bit of dignity. She doesn’t deserve any of this. A surge of anger nearly knocks me sideways when I realise that the person who put me in such an impossible position is purring like a pussycat.
‘Perfect,’ says Nikki, ‘because as I was just saying to Matt here, you have nothing to fear from Ms McQueen. Take my word for it, it will all be over when the fat lady sings!’
Bex
‘I think I’ll be getting off,’ says Mr Layton.
‘Not sticking around to watch my television debut then?’ says Sue, smiling.
‘Don’t think so,’ he says, dropping some sandwiches into a plastic bag. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about all this. I just thought I might be able to get some work out of it.’
Sue is nibbling a sausage roll. ‘It’s not your fault, Mel.’
‘You will be all right, won’t you?’ he says.
‘I’ll be better than all right,’ says Sue. ‘In fact, believe it or not, I’m feeling more positive than I have for a long time. You take care now.’
Mr Layton kisses her on the cheek and scuttles to the door. ‘I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.’
‘So what do we do now?’ I say, when the door closes and it’s just the two of us.
Sue points at the crackling monitor. ‘Watch the show, of course. What else can we do? You wouldn’t get me another sausage roll, would you, Bex?’
The Bex Factor Page 14
