by H. Y. Hanna
“Oh yes,” said my mother, returning from the kitchen with a tureen of soup which she set down in the middle of the table. “I was chatting to Mr Ziegler and it was fascinating listening to his stories of how his grandparents escaped the Nazis and made their way across France, to safety in England. They had two young children with them—one of them was Mr Ziegler’s father, who was only six at the time—and it sounded like the most harrowing journey.”
“And once they arrived here, there would have been challenges settling into their adopted country… but despite these difficulties, I believe Mr Ziegler’s father grew up to become an outstanding member of the community?” said Grace, looking at my mother for confirmation.
“Yes, apparently he started as a factory apprentice but was quickly promoted to foreman and was even elected leader of the local factory workers’ union. But sadly, he died rather young, of lung cancer, and Mr Ziegler’s mother had to bring him up as a single mother.”
“Indeed?” said Grace, looking pleased at this additional drama for her feature. “That cannot have been easy in the 1960s. Hmm… yes, a most heart-warming story. And Mr Ziegler himself—he seems to have overcome his difficult childhood with a single parent, to establish a successful plumbing business?”
“He told me that his grandfather was actually a plumber back in Germany, so he says he is proud to be continuing the family tradition,” said my mother with a smile. “And he is also continuing the family tradition of yodelling—another thing which his grandfather excelled at back in Bavaria.”
“Very commendable, very commendable,” said Grace, nodding. “It is a shame he’s likely to be eliminated from the competition.”
“Yes, it is so hard when you’re judging,” said my mother with a sigh. “One is supposed to judge them purely on the merits of their performance, and yet it is so difficult to be critical when one knows their background and how deserving they are of having a chance to win.”
“Maybe that’s why the other judges don’t get too close to the contestants,” I suggested. “That way, they don’t have to feel bad when they have to pick favourites.”
“I think it is very good of your mother to take so much personal interest in the contestants,” said Grace, frowning at me.
“Well, really, it’s very hard not to,” said my mother. “They all have such heart-breaking stories. That boy, Albert, for instance—he’s from a single-parent family too, did you know that? Oh, it was the most dreadful thing: his father left them for his mistress and then died in a car crash, so they were left completely alone. They were forced to move into council housing and it sounds like Albert’s mother became very depressed. He told me that he started doing magic tricks to cheer her up.”
“Ahh…” Grace smiled with satisfaction as she saw another feel-good story developing. “A wonderful son supporting his wounded mother. Yes, yes, I must include Albert in the feature. I wonder if his mother would be prepared to come to Oxford for a photo-shoot with her son? If not, I can send a photographer up to them… Now, what about that girl who plays the piano? She appears to be a demure, lovely lady.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know very much about Nicole—she seems very shy and she keeps to herself,” said my mother, finally picking up her bread roll.
I watched avidly as she broke off a bite-sized piece, applied a dab of butter with the bread knife, then popped it into her mouth. Aha! I started to follow suit, then was distracted as I heard Grace Lamont say:
“—believe she is a podiatrist, isn’t she? And I noticed her listed as ‘Mrs’ in the directory but I don’t recall seeing her husband in any of the show footage. I would have thought that he would be coming to watch the performances, to support his wife. Perhaps I will ring Nicole and ask her about her husband. It would be nice if we can do a more romantic piece to balance the other two—”
“Oh no, don’t do that!” I said before I could stop myself.
Grace looked at me in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry… it’s just… it’s probably not a good idea to ask Nicole about her husband.”
“And why not?”
“Well…” I shifted uncomfortably, feeling like I was betraying a confidence. “Nicole’s husband had an affair and left her recently, and I think she’s still very sensitive about it.”
“I see…” Grace paused, then her eyes gleamed. “Well, we can change the angle of the piece! We will feature her as a strong woman, triumphing against a bitter situation. Perhaps her motivation for going on the show was simply to thumb her nose at her husband… yes, that would make an even better story than the romantic angle.”
“No, no… I really don’t think Nicole would like that,” I protested. “Why don’t you leave her out of the piece? You’ve got more than enough stories with the other contestants—”
“Oh, no, this is a prime piece of melodrama—far too good to leave out. It is just the sort of thing that readers love and will do wonders to boost circulation.”
I looked at the woman with a mixture of surprise and distaste. So—for all her posh mannerisms and holier-than-thou attitude, Grace Lamont was really no better than Monty Gibbs: a newspaper hack out for a sensationalist story! And for all my dislike of the pushy businessman, at least he was honest about it, whereas Grace was a big hypocrite.
“I think you should have the decency to respect Nicole’s feelings and not hound her for the sake of a story, whatever the angle,” I said, more sharply than I intended.
Grace Lamont gasped in outrage and my mother looked horrified.
“Gemma!” she cried.
“I’m sorry,” I said stiffly. “I think good manners and good taste apply to more than just using the correct fork at the table. The most important place it should be observed is in the way we treat others.”
Grace bristled but seemed unable to think of anything to say in return. We sat in an awkward silence for a long moment, then my mother smiled brightly as she jumped on the tried-and-true British answer to every problem.
“Would anyone like a cup of tea?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was business as usual at the concert hall the next day. I was woken by a very early phone call from one of the show producers, asking me to provide the usual catering order. After a panicked call to Dora and a rush up to the tearoom to help her and Cassie prepare everything, I arrived at the concert hall mid-morning to find the place buzzing with even more tension and excitement than usual. The results of the votes were in, but the producers were tight-lipped, jealously guarding the results until they were to be announced live on stage that evening.
I found that I was wrong about Monty Gibbs milking the anticipation for the results and dragging things out. In fact, the show was planned to be shorter than normal. There would be a guest performance by one of Britain’s newest rock bands, followed by a recap from the judges of each contestant, and then the two finalists would be announced.
Afterwards, Monty Gibbs had invited the entire cast and crew to his estate in the Cotswolds for an “after-show party”. I couldn’t help cynically thinking that Monty Gibbs didn’t just have aspirations to be a TV judge; he obviously also fancied being one of those celebrities who hosted glamorous parties after awards ceremonies like the Oscars.
Much to my surprise, I was included in the invitation, and since I had no other plans for the evening, I decided to accept. My mother, as one of the judges, would be there and I could get a lift with her, going straight from the concert hall to Gibbs’s estate after the show. That only left me the issue of finding someone to feed Muesli her dinner and finding something to wear.
A phone call to Cassie solved the former problem and the Old Biddies came up with a suggestion for the latter:
“Ask Sharon, dear—she’s the head make-up artist and wardrobe lady,” advised Mabel. “I noticed that they have a rack in the dressing room filled with dresses of various sizes. They must have been there to provide different options for Nicole, Cheryl, Lara, and—
well, Trish was usually in a costume of her own, so she didn’t need a gown for her performance. Anyway, I’m sure there will be something on that rack in your size, that you could borrow for the evening.”
I was doubtful but when I did approach Sharon, I was pleasantly surprised.
“Oh yes, I think I’ve got something that would suit you perfectly,” said the woman, looking me up and down. “You’re a size ten, aren’t you?”
“Yes, usually, although sometimes I prefer a twelve, just to have a more relaxed fit.”
Sharon laughed. “Darling, these are evening gowns we’re talking about, not weekend pullovers. You want them to hug your figure, not be swimming around it.”
The dress she had in mind turned out to be an elegant gown in a deep-burgundy velveteen fabric which draped softly to give my boyish figure the illusion of curves. The colour made my complexion beautifully creamy and my dark bob of hair look extra glossy. In fact, I looked so good in it that I considered buying the dress from her after the party!
“This is gorgeous!” I said, standing in front of the mirror and smoothing the dress down over my hips.
“Mm…” said Sharon behind me, with a pin clamped in her mouth. She was busily nipping and tucking something at the back of the bodice. “I just need to tighten this a bit—it’ll only take a minute… By the way, have you got any make-up with you? You’ll want to get dolled up a bit, wearing a dress like this. It’ll look odd if you’re barefaced. If you haven’t got anything, you’re welcome to use the things here.” She gestured to the row of dressing tables next to us, each holding a collection of creams, powders, eye-shadows, and lipsticks.
“Oh, thanks… that’s really kind. I might take you up on that—although I don’t tend to wear much make-up usually.”
“If you just want a light, natural look, I’ve got a great palette in my make-up bag, together with some tinted lip gloss and a nice loose powder that I use for last-minute touch-ups—oh, not the one that I used the other night,” she added quickly. “Don’t worry, I opened a fresh box.”
“I didn’t think you’d be using that,” I assured her. “Anyway, I would have thought that the police would have taken that box for analysis.”
“They have. Although they haven’t found anything useful, from what I’ve heard—other than the fact that it had been tampered with.” She made a face. “Apparently someone had added itching powder to the box—what a horrible prank!”
“Do you think that’s what it was?”
“Well, what else could it be?”
“I thought it could be connected to the—” I broke off and smiled. “No, you’re probably right.”
A look of understanding dawned on her face. “Oh, you still think Trish did it to sabotage Gaz’s performance? But I thought the police checked and her fingerprints weren’t on the box.”
“No, you’re right. And anyway, Devl—I mean, Inspector O’Connor said that you told him the powder you use for last-minute touch-ups isn’t from this room, so it couldn’t have been the box that I saw Trish holding.”
“Yeah, I keep the last-minute stuff separate. Like I said, it’s mostly lighter, more natural colours—just to stop shine and retouch lip gloss—that kind of thing. We have another make-up artist who does the contestants when they’re dressing in this room and she uses the stronger colours that we have in here.”
“So whoever tampered with the box had to have done it outside, in the Waiting Area, when nobody was looking…” I mused.
“That’s what the inspector said. But the thing is…” She frowned. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to remember and I’m sure I didn’t leave the bag unattended. And anyway, I was touching up the granny band before I did Gaz and they were all fine, weren’t they? None of them were itching.”
“Yes, which means that the tampering was done between the time you did them and then did Gaz. Are you sure you didn’t put the bag down somewhere, even for a minute?”
She nodded. “I always carry it slung across my body, like this—see?” She demonstrated. “The only time I take it off is when I’m doing a contestant. Then it’s easier to have it next to me, to reach for things.” She screwed up her face in thought. “But I remember… I did each of the old ladies… they were all fairly quick and easy; they have lovely skin, actually—none of the usual liver spots or blemishes you have to worry about… oh, except for June: she’s got some spider veins on one cheek that she’s quite sensitive about so I had to add some extra coverage on that and I did her last. And then I popped to the loo—but the old ladies were watching my make-up bag for me—and then I came back and retrieved my bag and it never left my body, until the time I did Gaz.” She shook her head in confusion. “So I just can’t understand when anyone could have had the opportunity to tamper with the powder?”
“And are you sure the Old Bid—I mean, the old ladies were watching your bag?”
She nodded again. “Yes, I left it right next to June and she promised to keep an eye on it for me.”
An uneasy thought struck me, but before I could question her further, one of the crew popped their head in the doorway with a message from Monty Gibbs asking about today’s delivery. Hurriedly, I changed back into my normal clothes, left the gown with Sharon for alterations, and went to find Gibbs.
The rest of the day passed in a whirl of activity and before I knew it, it was time for the show. I was glad; it had been an awkward day from a social point of view. Trish had been even more unfriendly than usual: from her resentful looks, it was obvious that she blamed me for her visit to the police station. Cheryl gave me the cold shoulder as well, refusing to look at or speak to me, and I felt filled with guilt and remorse again for doubting her. Gaz moped around, a shadow of his former cheerful self. Although it hadn’t been his fault, the fiasco with the itching powder had cost him dearly, since there hadn’t been any opportunity for him to perform again before the voting lines closed at midnight. He would have to rely on audiences remembering his earlier performances and hope that his charm and talent had stayed strong in their memories. But from the sullen look on his face, it was obvious that he didn’t think much of his chances.
The rest of the contestants all seemed strangely subdued as well—even the Old Biddies were less chatty than usual, remaining in a huddle in a corner of the Waiting Area with their friend June. I was relieved when the curtains finally went up and the familiar voice intoned:
“Welcome to From Pleb to Celeb, the show where we turn nobodies into somebodies!”
I stood in the wings and watched the performance by the guest rock band. But like the rest of the audience, I only paid half-hearted attention, impatient for the real focus of the show. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation by the time the judges began calling each contestant on stage, while providing a recap of their strengths and weaknesses. Finally, they all stood in a line, waiting nervously for the results, and I found that I was digging my fingers into my palms as I waited for the announcement.
Stuart Hollande stood and held up a large gold envelope to show the audience. There was a tense silence as he slowly peeled back the flap and drew out the card within.
“And the finalists are…” He smiled at my mother and held the card out to her. “Actually, Evelyn, I think you should do the honours.”
“Oh…!” My mother stood up, slightly flustered. But she quickly composed herself, took the card, and read out loud in her clear, well-modulated voice: “Molly and Polly… and the Herb Girls!”
There was wild cheering from the audience and even wilder celebration on stage as June Driscoll gave a shriek of delight, then hugged each of the Old Biddies in turn. Mabel, Glenda, Florence, and Ethel looked slightly stunned, and I was surprised too. Okay, the granny band might have been a great novelty but even I had to admit—despite my affection for the Old Biddies—that their singing was atrocious. Could they really have beaten Trish and Skip, with their crowd-pleasing routine?
It was obvious that the dog walker was sharing m
y thoughts. While the other contestants conjured up strained smiles to hide their disappointment, Trish didn’t even bother. Scowling ferociously, she snapped her fingers at Skip, then stomped off stage, the collie trotting obediently at her side. Her sudden departure left everyone at a loss and the applause petered out into an embarrassed silence.
Quickly, Stuart Hollande stepped into the breach with his usual smooth charm: “Er… right, well, congratulations to the finalists… and thank you to the rest of the contestants. You have all been marvellous—to have come this far in the competition is a great achievement and I know that the other judges will agree with me when I say that you are all winners in your own right!”
The audience cheered again and applauded enthusiastically.
“Yeah, and I’m not just sending them packin’, right?” Monty Gibbs piped up, seizing his microphone and standing up in his chair so that everyone could see him. “They are all invited ter me estate for an after-show knees-up! Because we’re not like uvver TV contests, yer know—we don’t just chuck the losin’ contestants out and forget about them—we treat them wiv consideration and give them a grand send-off!”
“Er… yes… right… thanks, Monty. Very generous of you,” said Stuart with a pained expression. He cleared his throat and addressed the audience again: “But don’t think it’s all over—the real excitement is just beginning. The two finalists will be battling it out in the next episode of the show—so make sure you don’t miss it!”
“And we’ll be showin’ footage from the after-show party!” added Monty Gibbs. “Yer’ll see wot the contestants were eatin’ and drinkin’. I’ve called in a chef from one o’ those Michelin-starred restaurant ter provide the food—”
