by H. Y. Hanna
Again, that uneasy thought crossed my mind and I wondered about Gibbs’s morals. He was notorious for being insensitive to taste and political correctness… but what about justice and ethics? Would he stoop to murder to boost the publicity for his show? I knew that in the week since Lara’s death, the ratings for FPTC had gone through the roof. Even with filming stopped and no new episodes to broadcast, the re-runs had still drawn tens of thousands of viewers, and there were already syndication offers from US channels and other networks around the world, even though the show hadn’t finished yet.
I glanced at Devlin and wondered if I should voice my thoughts, but he was watching the stage with a broad grin on his face as Albert the magician came on, and I felt bad spoiling his mood. There would be time enough to tell him about my suspicions later—I would let him enjoy the evening first.
Leaning back in my own seat, I settled down to watch Albert’s performance. Because this was his second attempt, the young student seemed less nervous than usual and even managed not to stammer as he introduced himself.
“Now, Albert—you live on a council estate on the outskirts of Gloucester, is that right?” asked Stuart in a tone that was obviously done to milk drama for the cameras. “I understand that you’ve had a tough childhood… your mother was a single mum?”
Albert flushed. He looked down and shuffled his feet. “Yeah… it wasn’t easy.”
“And your mother… Is she in the audience tonight?” Stuart turned around to look at the rows of seats behind him.
“No,” mumbled Albert. “She couldn’t make it.”
“Oh, but I’m sure she’s very proud of you,” gushed my mother. “You’re such a fine young man—I’m sure you’re a testament to her care and upbringing. And I’m sure she must have made home-cooked meals for you while you were growing up? I know parenting is so different nowadays and there is so much emphasis on education and social stimulation, but really, I think home-cooking is one of the most important factors in raising a healthy child and I’m sure your mother would have baked you wonderful cakes and buns—”
Albert looked even more embarrassed. “Yeah… er… I’ve got some of her scones with me.”
“Oh, how delightful! My daughter, Gemma, has a tearoom that sells scones and they’re so popular—”
I looked up in horror. Oh God. Why is she bringing me into this?
“—and she bakes them fresh every day—well, when I say ‘she’, I really mean her pastry chef, Dora, because Gemma just cannot bake. Heaven knows, I’ve tried to teach her, but she can’t seem to master the technique. I think it’s a dreadful shame that girls nowadays can do all these high-flying executive jobs but cannot make a good home-cooked meal or bake a cake from scratch. Really, these are essential skills that every woman ought to know—”
“Please… somebody shut her up!” I moaned, cringing in my seat. My friends, though, seemed to find it amusing, and when I glanced at Devlin, even he was chuckling.
“Devlin—do something!” I pleaded.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked with a laugh. “Arrest her for being anti-feminist?”
“It should be a crime to embarrass your daughter on national TV,” I said, scowling.
Finally, to my relief, Stuart interrupted my mother and said smoothly: “Yes, very true, Evelyn, very true… and I’m sure Albert’s mother will be watching at home and cheering him on. Now, let’s sit back and enjoy a bit of magic, shall we?”
The lights dimmed except for those lighting the stage; Albert walked over to his props and began his routine. The act wasn’t particularly exciting or original—it was a medley of standard magic tricks, given a slight “fantasy” spin to match his wizard costume—and I was surprised that Albert had come so far in the contest. Perhaps he’d always got the pity vote, I thought. It had seemed like the judges were going for that angle, by playing up his disadvantaged background and difficult childhood. People loved an underdog. Besides, Albert projected an air of wounded vulnerability—like a small animal cowering in fear—which made you instantly want to help and protect him.
The white fog from the liquid nitrogen, which flowed out from the wings and blanketed the stage, did help to lift his act, giving the whole stage a mysterious ambience. In fact, it was so thick at ground level that it obscured everything up to Albert’s knees and made him look almost as if he was floating as he moved across the stage. And the rising plumes of vapour helped to hide his occasionally clumsy sleight-of-hand. When he performed his climax—a classic disappearing act where he sat in a chair and covered himself with a sheet, then reappeared several minutes later out of the white fog on the other side of the stage—I was unexpectedly impressed and joined the rest of the audience in applauding him with gusto.
“So was it worth watching it again?” I leaned across and asked Seth, when Albert had left the stage.
“Yes, although I thought there’d be a lot more, but we didn’t actually miss much last time. We’d just got to that big disappearing trick when we heard you screaming. So the only thing we didn’t see was the ending.”
“Yeah, you know, for a few minutes, I thought your screaming was part of his act,” said Cassie.
Before I could reply, the disembodied voice rang out again:
“And now, here’s a treat for all the dog lovers in the audience… let’s welcome Trish Bingham and her canine dance partner, Skip the collie!”
The crowd cheered dutifully as Trish walked on stage, with Skip trotting at heel next to her. Trish was dressed in a cowboy costume and Skip had a matching bandana around his neck. I had to admit that they looked very good and I could hear the awws already starting from the audience behind me.
Stuart Hollande, as usual, assumed the lead judge’s role and did the introductory spiel, asking Trish why winning the contest was important to her.
“I just want to win,” she said, unsmiling.
“Ha-ha… of course… I suppose you have big plans for the prize money?”
“No, not really.”
“Oh.” Stuart looked a bit taken aback. “Um… then I suppose you’re looking to make a name for yourself and Skip—maybe get a gig performing around the country?”
“No, I just want to win,” said Trish again.
Stuart blinked. “Oh… er… right.”
“Yer like me,” said Monty Gibbs with satisfaction. “We just like ter win, right? In everything.”
Trish didn’t respond and, after another awkward silence, Stuart hastily invited her to begin. We all watched as the woman and dog took up their positions in the centre of the stage. Then, as the opening strains of country music filled the auditorium, the duo began to move. Trish bowed low and the collie mimicked her, dropping into a classic canine “play-bow” pose. Then he twisted his body around and reversed through Trish’s open legs, before springing up onto his hind legs.
“Oooo-oooh!” cried the audience, delighted.
Trish uncoiled a length of rope from around her waist and pretend to lasso Skip, while the collie leapt over the swinging rope, nimbly evading it. Then at a command from Trish, he grabbed the rope in his teeth and backed away from her, tugging hard as he did so. Trish pulled back and the two of them circled in an exciting tug-o-war, before letting go of the rope simultaneously to spin around together.
“Aaaaw!” cried the audience. “Ohhh!”
They were a great team. The dog and woman moved in perfect sync to the music as they twirled and weaved, marched and skipped around the stage. It would have been nicer if Trish had cracked a smile at least once, but Skip’s bright-eyed enthusiasm more than made up for his owner’s sullen demeanour. When they performed their final twirl and finished with a bow to the judges, the audience erupted in cheers and applause.
“I hate to say it but she was pretty good,” commented Cassie as Trish led Skip off the stage. “I think, now that Lara’s gone, it’s going to be a close race between her and Gaz for the second spot.”
I was about to answer when the voi
ce came over the speakers again and my heart beat faster as I heard the announcement.
“It looks like it’s raining cats and dogs on From Pleb to Celeb tonight! Straight on the heels—oops, I mean paws—of Skip the collie, we have a little feline competing for the limelight. Let’s put it together for Cheryl Sullivan and her special feline friend, Muesli!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I sat up straighter as Cheryl walked on stage, leading Muesli on the leash. My little tabby cat paused in the glare of the footlights and pricked her ears at the sound of the audience whooping and clapping. I watched tensely, wondering how she was going to cope with all the noise and lights. Muesli was probably the most confident cat I knew, but still, most cats would have been terrified. And although she had gone through the moves during the rehearsal yesterday, nothing could have replicated the noise and energy of the crowd tonight.
Muesli peered around, her tail twitching from side to side, and lifted one paw, as if preparing to bolt. Cheryl bent down quickly and stroked her, saying something reassuring, and I saw Muesli relax as the audience slowly quietened down.
“Meorrw?” she said, her voice carrying clearly into the audience.
“Awww….” came the response from the crowd.
I grinned to myself. If the contest was judged only on the “cute” factor, Cheryl would be heading for top spot. There was even more “awwing” as people watched Muesli trot over to the little stand that had been erected for her in the centre of the stage and jump into the basket. Cheryl smiled and went through her pretence of conversation, asking if Muesli wanted to hear a story, and my little cat responded on cue with a chirpy “Meorrw!” in all the right places.
The audience literally melted and I felt inordinately proud of my little cat. I began to relax as well, and watched, beaming, as Cheryl picked up the puppets and started her song. But she hadn’t sung two verses when Muesli suddenly sat up in her basket. The little tabby looked out into the audience, her pink nose twitching as she sniffed the air. Then, before anyone could stop her, she sprang out of the basket and ran out to the front of the stage.
“Meorrw?” she cried, peering out into the audience.
Cheryl faltered, then tried to pretend that this was all part of the act as she continued singing and manipulating the puppets. I hesitated, not sure whether I should call out to Muesli to try and reassure her, or whether that would just make things worse. The little cat paced back and forth for a moment, then she gathered herself and leapt from the stage. There was a loud gasp from the audience, then an audible sigh of relief as Muesli landed on the judges’ table.
“Wot the—! Oi… get off!” spluttered Monty Gibbs, waving his hand at Muesli.
“Oh, Muesli…!” cried my mother.
She reached for the little tabby cat, but Muesli evaded her hands. Instead, she trotted down the table, past a bemused Stuart Hollande, and took another leap, this time landing in the central aisle. People were starting to point and laugh now, and several leaned out of their seats calling: “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…” Others were coming down the aisle, bending and attempting to catch her, whilst a few yelled for someone to call the RSPCA. It was absolute mayhem and no one was paying any attention to Cheryl on stage anymore.
I tried to get out into the aisle but found that with my seat in the centre of the row, I was wedged in by several people on either side and would have to climb over them. I stretched up as tall as I could and tried to make myself heard above the din, calling “Muesli! Muesli!” but my voice was drowned out by all the other people in the audience shouting at my cat. She was wandering up the aisle now, crying “Meorrw? Meorrw?” as she searched for a familiar face.
Then Devlin called out suddenly in his deep baritone: “MUUUUESLI!”
The little cat stopped, then whirled and trotted back eagerly in our direction. Devlin called again and she jumped up onto the seat backs, then—balancing nimbly—she clambered across the rows. There was a cheer from the crowd as she reached us and I scooped her up. But she squirmed in my grasp and stretched towards Devlin instead. I shook my head and laughed. I should have known. Devlin was probably Muesli’s most favourite person in the whole world. Perhaps she had smelled him while she was on stage and that was why she had come down: to look for him. Now she purred happily as he held her against his chest.
Several members of the crew were hurrying through the audience, trying to get people to return to their seats, but everyone was too keyed up now and people gathered in small groups, talking excitedly. Finally, the voice came over the speakers again and said:
“Ladies and gentlemen… er… we’ll take a short break now. There will be a twenty-minute interval.”
Slowly, the auditorium emptied as people wandered out into the lobby to stretch their legs and get refreshments. I looked towards the stage where Cheryl was standing forlornly, and felt a stab of guilt. Maybe, if Devlin hadn’t been sitting at the front of the audience, Muesli wouldn’t have smelled him and run off like that…
I found Cheryl backstage ten minutes later and hurried over, Muesli held firmly in my arms. The nursery teacher smiled in relief when she saw us.
“Oh, I’m so glad you got her! She wasn’t hurt, was she?”
“No, Muesli’s fine,” I assured her. “In fact, she seems to have enjoyed her little adventure. I was stopped by so many people wanting to pat her—that’s why it’s taken me so long to come backstage.”
I put Muesli into her carrier, then turned to see Cheryl packing her puppets into her chest.
“Aren’t they going to let you do your act again?” I asked.
She gave me a sad smile. “There’s no point, really. I didn’t think it was worth trying again.”
“I’m so sorry about Muesli—” I started to say but she cut me off.
“No, no… it was my fault, really. It was silly of me to think that I could expect a cat to cope with all that noise and distraction.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know what I was thinking, planning a routine with a cat on stage.” She looked enviously at Trish and Skip on the other side of the Waiting Area and said with a sigh, “There’s a reason why performing acts always use dogs.”
“You could do your act without Muesli,” I ventured.
“No, no, the feline partner is what makes it special and charming. Without Muesli, it would just be a middle-aged woman singing a silly song. Anyway…” She sighed. “This whole thing has made me realise that maybe this isn’t what I want to do after all.”
“Really? But I thought—”
“I don’t think showbiz is for me. What I enjoy is using song and puppetry to tell stories—and seeing the little children’s faces light up.”
“Well, you can do that, even without winning the contest,” I said. “There’s a big demand for children’s entertainers nowadays and I think you’d be fantastic. I’m not a child and I found your performance totally captivating—and not because of the cat,” I added quickly. “It was you. Don’t sell yourself short, Cheryl. You’re a great entertainer and you’ve got a lovely voice.”
“Th-thank you.” She looked surprised and touched by my praise.
“Why don’t you print up some leaflets and distribute them locally—see if people might like to hire you for birthday parties and things like that?”
She looked doubtful. “I suppose… I’d have to get permission from work first though.”
“Permission?”
“The nursery I teach at is part of a very exclusive private school and they have strict rules about staff behaviour and activities. One of the other teachers was recently dismissed, and although officially they said it was because they were consolidating positions, everyone knew it was because they found out that she was hosting ‘girls-only parties’ in her home.”
“Girls-only parties?”
She gave me a look. “You know, when you get a bunch of girlfriends around and one of those companies sends a rep with a box of sexy lingerie and adult toys for you to all look at
and buy. It’s really popular for hen nights and events like that. The person hosting the party usually gets a small commission.”
“But surely it doesn’t matter what your colleague does in her personal life, unless it affects her teaching?”
Cheryl shrugged. “Those are their rules. They are a Catholic institution and very intolerant about certain things. They pay really well though—almost double the usual rate—so people put up with it.” She brightened. “They’ve been very understanding, though, about me entering this contest and have even given me extended leave, so maybe you’re right. After all, moonlighting as a children’s entertainer is different to selling sex toys on the side.” She smiled at me. “Thanks for the suggestion. You’ve made me feel much more positive now about the whole thing.”
“Well, good luck… and I hope you’ll come and see us at my tearoom sometime,” I said with a warm smile.
“Oh, definitely,” she promised. “I live in Burford, just by the church, so that’s not far from your tearoom.” She reached out and stroked Muesli through the bars of her carrier, saying with a smile: “And, of course, I have to visit my second favourite tabby cat!”
***
After making sure that Muesli was settled in her carrier, in a safe corner of the Waiting Area, I headed back to rejoin Devlin and the others. But as I was about to enter the auditorium again, I spotted the sign for the toilets. I glanced at my watch: there were still several minutes of the intermission left, and for once the queue outside the Ladies didn’t look too bad. Quickly, I joined the end of the line. There was a group of three women standing in front of me and from their accents, it sounded like they had come down from Birmingham especially for tonight’s show.
“—didn’t think mooch of Trish’s act, did you?” said one of the women with a sniff.
“Same old routine she always trots out,” said another woman. “I thought she’d prepare sumthink’ really special for the show—else I wouldn’t have bothered to come down to watch. But no, it’s the same old boring moves… she hasn’t even bothered to change the order! It’s like she just marches around, doink’ the same things, whatever the music. I could’ve watched her doink’ that at the club on a Monday evenink’.”
