Face the Music

by Marianne Levy

‘Head of Top Music, Tony Topper, spoke to NTV this morning, saying that both acts are releasing singles on the same day.’

  ‘That’s him,’ I said. ‘That’s Tony.’ He was standing there in an expensive-looking simple white T-shirt showing just a curl or two of chest hair at the neck, looking as relaxed as if he was watching the telly, not on it.

  ‘Shhh!’ said Lacey.

  ‘All I can say is that I respect them both. They’re making great music. But the question for viewers is – are you Team Katie or Team Karamel?’

  The screen cut back to Chris, smiling into the camera.

  ‘The UK’s most established act is up against one of its most exciting newcomers. It’s the biggest chart battle in years, and so far, at least, this result is too close to call.’

  ‘That Tony’s a genius,’ said Dad. ‘An absolute genius.’

  ‘He kind of is,’ I said. ‘I mean, I thought he was down on me because I wouldn’t play one of his rubbishy songs. I assumed he’d given up on me. But this is . . . I mean, this is huge!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lacey.

  ‘So, how’s that set list coming along?’ Dad grinned. ‘All eyes are going to be on you, my girl.’

  All the eyes? ‘Uh, it’s OK.’

  ‘Not feeling too nervous, I hope?’

  ‘. . . No.’

  ‘Great! This is such an opportunity.’ He beamed. ‘My little princess, all grown up, out there, in the spotlight . . .’

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, because his words were making my stomach do worrying things, ‘it’s actually a very intimate concert. Low key. Tony and I agreed that we’d start small.’

  ‘Doesn’t look small from where I’m sitting,’ said Dad.

  ‘Very small,’ I said, mainly to myself. ‘Small, and intimate and low key.’

  I turned down Savannah’s offer of that pink limo to take me to the gig, and in the end, it was Adrian who drove us there, four sleepless nights later, to a soundtrack of the Pet Shop Boys and early Pulp.

  It wasn’t the most fun of journeys. For my part, I was playing songs over and over in my head, until none of them made sense any more and I’d completely forgotten why I’d written them. Meanwhile Adrian was mainly swearing, at the traffic, at other drivers and at the lack of decent signposting on the M25. So much so that I hardly registered when he started banging his fist against the steering wheel.

  ‘Ach.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Amanda.

  ‘See for yourself,’ said Adrian.

  The road outside the venue had been blocked off by some kind of demonstration. A hundred or possibly two hundred people were standing around doing demo-type things like holding hands and chanting and waving flappy homemade signs.

  ‘Why are they doing it here?’ I said. ‘There’s all of London to stand and shout in, after all.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard anyone was marching today,’ said Mum.

  ‘This isn’t an ordinary demo,’ said Adrian. ‘They’re too young.’

  Now he came to mention it, they were all around my age, or younger, wearing T-shirts and hoodies and little tiny skirts, with fluffed-up hair and angry faces.

  ‘They’re . . .’ Adrian stopped. ‘Ah. I wondered if this might happen.’

  It was then that I read the nearest sign. It said:

  KATIE COX IS A WITCH

  Which made me read the other signs. I got:

  KARAMEL FOREVER

  and

  BAD APPLE

  and

  KATIE HATER

  and

  UGLY FACE UGLY SOUL

  And then I decided I would stop reading the signs.

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s going on?’ asked Mum, who really needed to get with the programme.

  ‘They’re Karamel fans,’ said Amanda. ‘And I think they’re a bit upset with Katie.’

  ‘I am not a hater,’ I said. ‘I just happen to be giving my opinion about something, which is that I hate it.’

  ‘Talking of which,’ said Adrian, ‘K, maybe you want to turn away from the window?’

  Given the view, this was not a difficult decision to make.

  ‘Yeah. Let’s make it into the venue alive,’ said Amanda, which I think we all felt was unnecessary.

  Thank the Lord I hadn’t gone for the Savannah-mobile. Adrian’s car was old and dented and smelt of fags and mints, but it was, at least, reasonably anonymous.

  Shame I couldn’t stay in it forever, really.

  ‘All right?’ A bloke with an earpiece was talking to Adrian through the window. ‘Round the back. Don’t worry, it’s ticket holders only.’

  So Adrian attempted a three-point turn, which quickly became a twenty-seven-point turn, as all the while I tried to tune out the chanting, and Mum, who kept saying:

  ‘Why do you always have to upset people, Katie?’

  ‘I’m just saying my opinion.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re famous now. Your opinions matter.’

  ‘And they didn’t before?!’

  Mum’s fingers began to massage the bit between her nose and her forehead.

  Then I was safely lodged in a dressing room with ‘Katie Cox’ taped to the door. Only it wasn’t safe, not safe at all, because in half an hour I would be onstage performing in front of two hundred and fifty people.

  My brain took in the office chairs, the bunch of flowers with a note from Top Music, the two bottles of mineral water, one fizzy and one still, anything to distract me from the fact that in half an hour I would be onstage performing to two hundred and fifty people.

  ‘I can’t believe that in just half an hour you’ll be onstage performing to two hundred and fifty people!’ said Lacey, who had travelled in the Savannah-mobile.

  ‘That’s so many people,’ said Paige.

  ‘And you haven’t even done your make-up,’ said Savannah.

  ‘Yes I have,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Savannah.

  With eleven of us in the room, plus my guitar, it was starting to feel a tad claustrophobic.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ said Adrian.

  ‘A drink would be great,’ said Dad.

  ‘And for me,’ said Jaz. I have no idea how she’d got there.

  ‘I meant Katie,’ said Adrian.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I said.

  The walls, which were a very deep green, seemed to be closing in on me, like I was being suffocated by spinach. I shut my eyes.

  ‘Katie.’ Amanda’s voice sounded far away. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, opening my eyes to see Lacey looking down the scrawled bit of paper that was my set list.

  ‘You’re going to play “Can’t Stand the Boy Band”?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Even though you know how much it upset all those Karamel fans?’

  ‘Um . . .’ I said, because she was maybe perhaps a little bit right. I mean, I’d known that my song would annoy people, but not so much that they felt like they had to make signs and come to my gig to protest . . . This was a bad idea.

  Not just the song, not just the chart battle, but this concert.

  Everything.

  All of it.

  Dad was strumming on my guitar, while Savannah was demonstrating to Paige the perfect way to use lip liner, using Sofie’s mouth as a canvas. I sank down into a chair and put my head between my knees.

  Then: ‘Right, that’s it. Everyone out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t mean me,’ said Savannah.

  ‘I do,’ said Adrian. ‘I’m Katie’s manager and I want this room clear in the next thirty seconds. Go find a place to watch. Or get a drink. I don’t care. But GO.’ He caught my shoulder as I made for the door. ‘Not you, bozo.’

  ‘Oh.’ I looked back at the room, which was now wonderfully empty. ‘Hey, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll call you when it’s time,’ said Adrian.

  Ten minutes to go.

  I tuned my guitar, and then retuned it. I sang a few notes into t
he mirror, which had lights all the way around it, and reapplied my eyeliner.

  Five minutes to go.

  Don’t be sick, don’t be sick.

  Then I went into the toilet and was sick.

  There was a gentle knock on the door.

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  There was a thick darkness to the wings. Deep and thick and I was in the middle, down deep, in the depths of my personal grave.

  Very, very close, I could hear them, the audience, the two hundred and fifty people who were about to see me completely fall apart.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Katie, hi!’

  ‘Yaaaaaaargh!’

  I must have jumped about ten metres into the air.

  ‘Sorry, Katie, it’s Chris. From NTV news. You remember?’

  ‘Oh, right. Hi, Chris.’ I’m not the world’s greatest conversationalist at the best of times, and this definitely wasn’t the best of times.

  ‘You remember the deal? We’re just going to have a quick chat with Kurt while you’re singing; he’ll be here in a minute. If we can get the VT edited in time we’re looking at a slot on tomorrow’s ten o’clock news. Have a great show!’

  And before I had time to think, or even breathe, the lights started doing some crazy whizzing about, and this huge voice came down from the sky, or possibly the speakers, and Kurt and Chris stopped mattering because I knew I was going to have to sing.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . .’

  I don’t want to be here.

  ‘She’s a rising star. Our youngest, freshest, realest talent . . .’

  Please, let me be somewhere else.

  ‘Give a very warm welcome to . . .’

  Anywhere else.

  ‘KATIE COX!’

  I hesitated. And then, on legs that felt like they were someone else’s, stepped out, from the darkness, into bright, bright light.

  It was like when you do a somersault in the swimming pool and halfway through forget which way is up. For a long second I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, and then, slowly, the world settled.

  They were there, just beyond the end of the stage. A blur, face melting into face, shifting, coughing. I could smell their hot breath.

  Through the murmuring, a single, lonely whoop.

  ‘Um,’ I said, sliding into place on to a chair and trying to tilt the microphone so that it was nearer my mouth. It wouldn’t move. I tried harder.

  It wouldn’t budge and wouldn’t budge and I was seriously considering giving it a bash with my guitar when it occurred to me that I could just move a bit further forward. So I did that.

  ‘Hi.’

  The front row began to focus. Lacey, next to Amanda. Jaz. Nicole. Savannah, Paige and Sofie. Tony. Mum. Dad.

  They seemed . . . excited.

  And then, less excited.

  The more I stared into the audience, the more they shuffled and looked away. As though until two minutes ago they had really been worked up about seeing me in the flesh. But now I was here, my flesh pale and sweaty and trembling, everyone was starting to think it might have been better to have stayed home.

  I know I was.

  ‘So I’m Katie Cox. As in the apple. Not that there’s an apple called Katie, but maybe there should be! Ha ha.’

  I swear I heard Jaz sigh.

  ‘So, yes. Katie Cox. That’s me.’

  I glanced sideways. The darkness was only three steps away. Two steps, if I made them big ones. I could be off the stage and out the back door in, what, a minute, maybe a minute and a half?

  In fact, I was just wondering exactly how much money I’d owe Tony if I ran out now when I noticed that I was somehow still talking.

  Isn’t it amazing what the human body can do?

  ‘So. Anyway. I’m going to p-play you a couple of songs. More than a couple. Some songs. Of mine. That I wrote.’

  With the most massive effort that anyone has ever made, I managed to lift up my guitar and get my numb fingers into position on the strings.

  ‘This one’s called “London Yeah”. Because we’re in London. Um, yeah. Yeah! Yeah.’

  I strummed the opening chords.

  Trafalgar Square and then Big Ben

  Bond Street and Covent Garden

  Greenwich and the Cutty Sark

  And a really massively big Primark

  Put your hands in the air

  For London yeah

  This was OK. I sounded a bit wavery, but it wasn’t too bad.

  Camden Town and Kensington

  Notting Hill and . . .

  And . . . where?

  I’d forgotten the next line.

  In a fraction of a zillionth of a millisecond I raced to the bit of my brain where I kept all my lyrics, and . . .

  Nothing. Completely empty.

  Like a cathedral, if someone had taken all the seats and altar out, and switched the lights off. And maybe, right in the middle, left a tiny bit of paper that said ‘sorry’.

  Camden Town and Kensington

  Notting Hill and . . . Aberdeen

  Where had I got that from? Aberdeen isn’t in London. Not even slightly.

  But it did fit, sort of. And is, at least, a place.

  Greenwich and the Cutty Sark

  And a really massively big Primark

  Put your hands in the air

  For London yeah.

  No one put their hands in the air, either for London, or for me. I got to the end of the song, and there was an embarrassed pause, then a dribble of applause.

  Just the whole rest of the concert to go.

  ‘OK, cool, thanks. This next one is called “Cake Boyfriend”. I wrote it because my friend Savannah, she’s here, in the front row, hey Savannah –’ Savannah quietly pulled her jacket over her head – ‘she had this massive cake at her party and she loved it so much it was almost like a boyfriend and I thought wouldn’t it be great to have a cake that was a boyfriend. Anyway.’

  Pat-a-cake

  Pat-a-cake

  Baker’s man

  Bake me a boy as fast as you can

  Give him fudge for hair

  And frosted blue eyes

  And finish him off with

  TWANGGGGGG . . .

  I’d snapped a string.

  ‘What is wrong with me?’ I murmured, or rather, meant to murmur, only the microphone picked it up and made it really loud.

  Adrian appeared at my side and took the guitar as I stood, now shaking, and the audience began to whisper and rustle.

  And I thought, I won’t even have nightmares any more. Not now. There won’t be any point.

  Adrian handed back my guitar and I strummed again.

  Out of tune.

  Now the murmurs were getting restless. In fact, some of them had stopped being murmurs and become proper conversations. Probably about me being completely terrible.

  Words floated up in front of my eyes, words from those signs, just outside.

  KATIE COX IS A WITCH.

  BAD APPLE.

  UGLY FACE UGLY SOUL

  They were right, of course. I was useless and ugly and wrong. The people outside knew it. Everyone inside knew it, too. I should get off the stage now, crawl back under my rock and stay there forever.

  ‘This is going really badly, isn’t it?’ I said, more to myself than anyone else.

  There was this HUGE laugh.

  And I began to play.

  Pat-a-cake

  Pat-a-cake

  Baker’s man

  Bake me a boy as fast as you can

  This time, it was better. I even started to feel it, a bit, towards the end, so, as it finished, I played straight through the applause, on into ‘Autocorrect’, then ‘That Belt’.

  That belt

  That belt

  That turquoise belt

  With sparkly stones and bits of felt

  From the back, people were joining in.<
br />
  Six ninety-nine

  And it could have been mine

  With sparkly stones and bits of felt

  My fingers were behaving. My voice seemed to know what to do. The singing from the audience got louder, and I could hear Adrian, and Mum, and Dad.

  I was . . . I was almost starting to enjoy it.

  My dad rocks hard

  My dad is ace

  My dad plays lead guitar

  And drums and sax and bass

  My dad’s way cool

  My dad’s so fine

  My dad lives his dreams

  And shows me mine

  Now the audience wasn’t this frightening thing any more. It was more like a wave, or a huge blob of power, and I was riding it, or feeding from it or something, because the more it cheered and stamped, the better I felt. Especially when I went into ‘Just Me’ and everyone held up their phones and swayed.

  Then, it was finished, and . . .

  ‘So, this is the last song,’ I said. ‘I know it’s been a bit, erm, controversial. But hey. It’s something I really believe.’

  I picked out the first few notes.

  Can’t stand the boy band . . .

  And – I’m not kidding – the room went crazy.

  They knew all the words, every last one, and they half sang them, half shouted them along with me.

  Plastic faces, stupid hair

  Can’t stand the boy band

  The matching clothes they wear

  While most of me was there, in the room, a small part of me was saying to Tony, See? We’re not stupid. We are not soppy idiots, ready to be fed your mushy pap.

  The tattooed Chinese symbols

  On the skin that’s perma-tanned

  I can’t stand the boy band

  Louder.

  Don’t like the boy band

  Singing songs about their nans

  Don’t like the boy band

  Hanging round their camper vans