Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (13 page)

‘But the great news is, I’ve already found a replacement!’

‘You’ve done what?’

‘That’s right. In fact he’s here now.’

I’m baffled. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘This young guy dropped in earlier, while you were out, said he was looking for a bar job and heard about our plans here. I hired him on the spot. Happy coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

I open my mouth but no words come out.

Evan sticks his head round the door. ‘Alex?’ he calls.

In moments a tall dark stranger appears, complete with disarming smile and bulging biceps (and those big neck muscles that I always find off-putting, like he’s got two loaves of bread sitting on his shoulders). He’s handsome, but it’s not the sort of look I find attractive – too plastic, and he’s got more than a passing resemblance to Action Man. I know instinctively that he shaves his body hair.

Evan pulls him into the store, swiftly shutting the door. I feel like we’re hiding from the teachers at school, having a sneaky fag at break.

I look between the two men. ‘What’s going on?’

Evan grins, exposing that dam of sparkling white teeth. ‘Meet Alex,’ he says, clapping the man on his chunky back, ‘your new head barman.’

‘Can you believe it?’ I splutter, chucking my tea bag in the kitchen bin. ‘Suddenly I’ve got this random bloke working for me who I’ve never met before in my life!’

Lou scoops up her bowl of cereal and we head back to our desks. ‘You could have said no,’ she points out.

‘How? We’re going live in two days’ time and there’s no way Simon and Jaz can handle the bar by themselves. But then Alex doesn’t even seem that experienced – he dropped a bottle of vodka last night trying to make cocktails. It was disastrous!’

‘He was probably nervous.’

We slump down at our desks. The red light on my Simply Voices answer machine is blinking incessantly. It’s going to be a long day.

‘Maybe. It’s a bit odd him starting just as Archie quits, don’t you think?’

‘I think Evan Bergman sounds like a control freak,’ says Lou, spooning in her Cheerios with one hand while she checks email with the other. ‘He’s got to have the last word on everything. You have to stand up for yourself.’

Jennifer pops up from behind a partition, alert as a meerkat, and I’m just in time to stifle a yawn. I’ll admit I’ve been slack these past few weeks – I’ve probably only done about sixty per cent of my allocated shifts – so it’s little wonder that she’s been watching me like a hawk. Flaunting evidence of my increasingly late nights is
not
a wise idea.

‘You’re right,’ I concede. ‘He’s just so … convincing.’

Lou’s phone rings. She munches her mouthful furiously before picking up, while I make a start on my mountain of mail, a bulging stack of jiffy bags and envelopes containing CDs and show reels from hopeful applicants. We’re so inundated that we can’t listen to them all, so it’s my job to return to sender with a kind refusal. I try not to think too much about who I might be replying to: when once I overheard a snippet of an audition, the person speaking darted between so many accents and characters at such speed that it was like a case of demon possession and I half expected them to start growling away in Latin.

‘Ohmygod,’ says Lou, as I grab a bundle of rejections off the printer. She clamps a hand over her mouth.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Lawrence.’

I shuffle the papers. ‘What about him?’

‘Erm, do you really want to know?’ She adds swiftly, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘Well, you have now. So come on – spill.’

‘He’s going out with Francesca Montgomery.’ Lou clicks her mouse. ‘Hang on a minute. Yeah, it says here they were spotted at Nobu at the weekend.’

‘Who’s Francesca Montgomery?’ I ask, surprised by how I don’t really mind. A couple of weeks ago I’d have been distraught, but I’ve been so distracted with Sing It Back that I haven’t thought about Lawrence in ages.

‘That theatre director.’ Lou clicks some more. ‘God, it can’t be doing Law any harm, can it? According to this, she’s considering casting him in her new play.’

I come round to look at Lou’s screen. It’s one of those celebrity gossip sites.

‘Is that her?’ I lean in for a closer look. She’s quite harsh-looking, tall with a severe dark bob and horn-rimmed glasses. ‘She’s very … arresting.’

Lou raises an eyebrow. ‘Maddie, she’s about seventy.’

‘No, she’s not.’

We Wikipedia it. She’s forty-eight. ‘See?’

‘That’s nowhere near seventy!’

‘And it’s nowhere near twenty-nine,’ Lou says drily. ‘Don’t try telling me this is an innocent case of love at first sight.’

We begin reading the article. Then Lou’s clicking furiously on the little x to close the window – but it’s too late, I’ve already seen it.

‘They’ve been together for over a month …?’ I try to remember the exact date Lawrence and I broke up.

‘Oh, Maddie.’ She looks up at me. ‘They’ve probably got it wrong – you can’t trust anything these gossip columns say.’ But I can tell that’s not what she really thinks.

I’m crestfallen. ‘You can’t trust anything your boyfriend says either.’

Lou closes the window and swivels her chair to face me. ‘All this proves is what a dick he is. You’re a million times better than him.’ She balls her fists. ‘God! It makes me so cross.’

‘
We
were together a month ago,’ I say. ‘Shit.’

‘Clearly there’s no real affection there,’ resolves Lou, waving her hand as if to dismiss his new relationship, trying to make me feel better. ‘Francesca wants him because he’s young; he wants her because she might help shift his dead-inthe-water career. Plus it’s a classic Freudian set-up and for that reason it’s flawed from the outset, trust me. He’s a nob, Maddie, OK?
He’s a nob
. You deserve so much more.’

‘I don’t really care how they feel about each other …’ I prod those vulnerable places to make sure – yes, I’m OK. ‘I just can’t believe he would do that to me!’ I flop down in my chair.

Jennifer’s face hovers above me. ‘Everything all right over here?’

‘Fine.’ I begin stuffing the rejections into their envelopes.

‘All set for bowling tonight?’

Oh
no
. I’d forgotten about the bi-monthly ‘team-building’ excursions they recently put in place to boost staff morale. I’ll come up with an excuse.

‘Maddie’ll be there!’ sings Lou.

‘Who does Lawrence think he is?’ I hiss when Jennifer’s gone. ‘An idiot, maybe, but a cheat? I always thought I’d be able to tell if someone was doing one over on me.’

‘I can crumble a fish stock cube in his car radiator, if you like,’ Lou says, tapping away.

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘Dog poo through his letterbox?’

‘No.’

‘King prawns in his curtains?’

‘Forget it.’

‘Fine. In that case remember what he sounds like with haemorrhoids. I’ve got it on file somewhere if you need a reminder.’

In the end Lou drags me to bowling, claiming I’m never going to feel any better unless my frustrations can be ‘channelled into the physical world’ or something. I think she means I need a drink.

We’re on a team with Jennifer, our post guy and some bloke in Marketing I’ve never spoken to but who has the thinnest moustache I’ve ever seen.

‘Maddie, you’re up!’ crows Jennifer, taking a hefty glug of her mango J2O. I don’t know why she’s so excited: every one of my previous six efforts have slid miserably into that gutter bit at the sides.

‘Try a different ball,’ suggests Lou, lifting a snot-coloured one with massive deep holes for the fingers and thumb.

‘It weighs ten tonnes!’

‘Yeah but you’ll get more speed,’ she explains.

‘As I’m going down the gutter?’

‘Come on, I’ll show you.’ She relaxes into a forward lunge and I burst out laughing.

‘What?’ She laughs back.

‘Have you ever been bad at bowling?’ I ask.

‘Not that bad.’

‘So you’ve never had to sit through someone else’s demonstration of how bowling should look? Trust me, you don’t want to.’

‘But if you lean
into
it a bit more …’

‘I know how it should
look
, Lou, I just can’t
do it
!’

‘Go for it, Maddie!’ shouts the post guy as I clomp towards the lane in my red and blue clown’s shoes.

There’s an eight-year-old boy lining up his shot in the alley next to me. Our eyes meet.

He wants a challenge? Fine. He’s got one.

I raise the snotty ball, staring hard at those white pins a mere arm’s throw away, as if by sheer will I can secure victory. The boy takes his own aim, doing a brief hop-skippity-jump before launching himself like a firework, releasing the ball at the last minute and sending it shooting dead-centre down the aisle. It smashes into a strike.

‘ULTIMATE DESTRUCTION!’ somebody yells from his party – an older brother, I’m guessing, in a Space Invaders T-shirt.

I look behind at my own support team, feeling like a champion about to face the last hurdle. Everything’s in slow motion. Jennifer’s nodding. Lou’s mouthing instructions. Post guy’s got his face in a pint. That Marketing chump’s already picking out his next ball.

But that’s OK. Because I can do this.

I take a deep breath.
Focus
. It’s just me and the runway.

Trotting a bit on the spot, I move into a run, lunge forward, extend my arm in that way I’ve been shown a million times before and prepare to let go …

Except I’ve run over the line. And for some reason I’m still running, my fingers wedged inside the ball. The bloody ball’s stuck on my hands. And I’m still running. Why am I still running? I should stop. The pins are getting closer. I’m going to run straight into them. Perhaps if I knock them down manually it still counts as a strike—

And then I trip.

As I go flying the ball springs free, smacking into the lane and travelling the final few yards to the pins, where it slopes off to the sides and begrudgingly knocks one on its way past, which wobbles a bit before righting itself.

I land face-down.
Ow
.

The urgent sound of footsteps, hurrying, comes closer. Then Lou’s crouching down next to me, her face alongside mine.

‘Maddie! Bloody hell, what happened?’

‘Did I get a strike?’ I ask through my hair.

A pause. ‘It doesn’t matter. Get up.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Are you hurt? Oh my god, can you feel your legs?’

‘No.’

‘No, you’re not hurt, or no, you can’t feel your legs?’

‘I’m not hurt.’

‘Come on then, people are looking.’

‘I’m too embarrassed. Pretend I’m dead.’

‘I’m having a conversation with you, Maddie. Clearly
you’re not dead. Come on.’ She hauls me to my feet and I shuffle red-faced back to the others.

‘Foul!’ yells Marketing Man, and I feel like saying the same thing back about his facial hair. Gleefully he punches my score of nil into the computer. The telly screen above our lane displays a pin with tears spraying out its eyes.