Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (15 page)

It’s going OK. In fact, I might even go so far as to say it’s going
well
.

It’s ten p.m. and the club is busier than it’s been in years. Nearly every booth and table is taken and since we opened an hour ago it’s been non-stop at the bar: Jaz, Simon and Alex are run off their feet. (Well, Jaz and Simon are – I keep having to
step in whenever Alex disappears out back, with no explanation as to where he’s going or why.)

Even the karaoke’s sounding good.

When I saw the fruit of our labours this morning, I actually felt quite emotional. While it’s only the first rung of a long, long ladder, and the root components of the set are still there (including the Gary Numan clock – Evan was quite specific about that), everything is … bolder, confident, more audacious. The closest I can get to describing it is like a caricature. The foul upholstery’s been buffed and scrubbed, boasting its gruesomeness to full effect; the mirror ball has been taken down and replaced with an even bigger, brasher one; the spotlights have been swapped with those siren thingies I bought from Loaf, shooting lurid pink beams of light across a polished stage and crowd of rowdy singers. The red walls have been repapered in an even more aggressive shade of scarlet, the clash against the fuchsia mirrors truly startling. Revolting – and exactly what Evan wanted for the opening show. But despite this, for once in its life it looks deliberate, bothered about, like someone has taken care of it.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I told Evan, amazed.

‘It’s tacky and awful,’ he retorted matter-of-factly. ‘Why’d you think I let that mad American loose with a box of paints? The place is so hideous it’s a work of art.’

But nobody here tonight seems to care – they’re having far too much fun. Right now there’s a mob of people belting out Bon Jovi, a couple of guys on stage falling to their knees and pulling out their air guitars. For the first time we have variety on the song lists (i.e. more than twelve that actually survive the distance without skipping), even if Simon’s a bit offended that
people haven’t taken to his revised list as he’d hoped. All the old favourites keep rearing their ugly heads: Take That, Queen, Madonna, the
Dirty Dancing
soundtrack … My theory is that people don’t come to karaoke to look good or impress, or take themselves seriously; they just want to sing along to the songs they grew up with – the songs to which they laughed, cried, dreamed, lost, had their first kiss, fell in love, got their hearts broken.

And the best bit? I’ve hardly noticed the cameras. I’ve been too distracted to bother with them, especially not with manoeuvring myself into every single shot and hanging off anybody who happens to be in the frame (not naming names, Davinia). Evan was right: it does feel like business as usual. Well,
un
usual in the sense that we’re actually doing business, but usual insofar as a regular night feels working with my friends.

‘You seen Evan?’ shouts Simon over the noise as we pull measures from the optics. He swipes a hand across his brow.

‘No,’ I say, shovelling the ice bucket and filling two glasses. ‘I haven’t seen much of Alex either – where is he?’

Simon takes cash and drops his tip into the communal pint glass. ‘That’s why I asked.’ He gives me a troubled look. ‘Every time Evan disappears, Alex does, too. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing, Maddie.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘He made a Long Island Iced Tea earlier – you won’t believe what he did.’

‘Put a tea bag in it?’

He frowns. ‘How did you guess?’

‘Two Guinness and four Sambuca when you’re ready,
mate,’ says a customer, leaning over the bar and flapping a twenty-pound note.

‘You’re kidding,’ I say, amazed. ‘And Evan hired him? Jesus.’

‘Tell me about it,’ agrees Simon, lining up the glasses. ‘Thankfully I saw it bobbing on the surface before it went out. But, listen: Jaz and I need Alex here, good or not, especially if things continue to pick up. We need
someone
. You shouldn’t have to keep filling in the gaps.’

‘Actually,’ I drop in casually, ‘I’ve asked Lou to work a few shifts.’

‘Oh.’ He clears his throat. ‘That’s great.’

I shrug. ‘Anyway, to be honest I’d much rather be here than out schmoozing with Evan. He wants me to do an interview with Chester Bender later’ – I shudder inwardly – ‘that’s more than enough time in front of the cameras for me.’

‘Have you seen him yet?’ Simon lets the pints settle while he gets change.

I take another order. ‘Who, Chester? Yeah, he’s … extreme. His eyebrows are about three feet above his eyes. And he moves really quickly. I think he’s wearing those trainers with tiny wheels on; all you have to do is blink and he’s gone. He’ll be at the bar one second and conspiring in a corner with Evan the next.’

Simon laughs. ‘Don’t you have to be, like, eleven to get away with those?’

‘Guys, guys, guys!’ Jaz ducks under Simon’s arm. He draws her to him and plants a kiss on her hair. For a second I recall Lou’s unease, before I remember they’re just friends. ‘Someone’s put in a bid for my portrait of Andre!’

‘What?’ Simon grins. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes! Can you believe it?’ The little hat on her head gives a jaunty wobble. ‘Twenty-five pounds! He said he wanted Andre to pose for
The Birth of Venus
next – do you think that could work?’

‘Sounds like a perv to me,’ says Simon, taking another order.

‘Jaz, stop selling Andre to art dealers,’ I tell her, putting on my manager’s hat. ‘Alex is nowhere to be seen and we’re drowning out here.’

Jaz puts a hand to her mouth. ‘You’re so right,’ she says, full of remorse, ‘what am I thinking? Andre would never do topless.’

‘Just get back to work,’ I instruct, ‘I’ve got to find Evan.’

I’m lifting up the bar hatch and nearly slam straight into Alex (which at full speed might well have knocked me out). He regards me with a blank, unnerving expression. Behind him I can see Evan’s springy hair illuminated in the raspberry strobe lights.

‘Where have you been?’ I ask.

‘Out back,’ he says flatly, shifting his considerable weight from one foot to the other. He’s sporting a tight V-neck top that plunges to his sternum, and the hairless caramel cleavage going on between his pecs is probably bigger than mine. His expression is empty, like a walking-talking soldier toy that hasn’t had its batteries put in yet.

‘If you need to go out for a fag, just say.’ I fold my arms. Something about this guy makes me really uncomfortable. ‘But don’t keep disappearing. Jaz and Simon haven’t had a break yet and my count is you’ve had about five.’

‘Isn’t it fantastic, Maddie!’ Suddenly Evan’s with us,
florid-faced, the neck of his shirt tugged loose to reveal a gleam of sweat on his chest. ‘It’s looking great on camera. The team are catching everything!’

‘Er, yes,’ I say, momentarily disorientated as Alex slips past me and back to work. I’m annoyed with Evan for interrupting.

‘Toby’s happy,’ he goes on, draping a meaty arm round my shoulders and pulling me into his hot armpit, ‘the repairs we did are spot-on. Now, Chester Bendwell is live with the viewers at home; he’s been taking them round, telling them everything they need to know so it all makes sense when we move to the nightly shows. They want to meet you, though, Maddie, so we’ll come and grab you shortly.’

‘What do I say?’

Evan doesn’t seem fussed about that. ‘Introduce yourself and say a few words, you know – tell them what it is you do; your name, obviously—’

‘My name?!’

He looks at me funny. ‘Yes …?’

‘My name’s Maddie Mulhern!’

‘I know it is …’

‘Hey, Maddie! Check this out!’ It’s Jaz. I turn to see Alex brandishing a bored-looking Andre, trying to get him to take money off a gang of cooing punters.

‘How cute is that?’ she squeals. If I hadn’t witnessed first-hand how dedicated Jaz is to that guinea pig, or how tenderly she takes care of him behind the scenes, I think I’d be tempted to phone the RSPCA.

Behind her, Simon looks distinctly pissed off. It’s not like him to get annoyed with Jaz – or anyone, for that matter – but I can understand it: he’s busy pulling pints while the others are
more interested in pulling faces. It’s nothing to do with the fact that Jaz and Alex seem to be getting on like a house on fire. Of course it isn’t. Why would he care about that?

I haul a plastic crate from the bins and begin to load up the dirties.

‘Ugh,’ says Evan, sickened. ‘Can’t you put it down?’

‘Evan, welcome to bar work,’ I say drily. He’s probably never had to lift a finger for anything in his life except typing in his multimillion-pound bank transfers.

‘I meant the rodent,’ he says bitterly, scowling at the shenanigans going on behind the bar. I’m about to come back with a smart retort when he abruptly moves off, his attention caught elsewhere.

I shake the dregs from a handful of glasses and pile them up, just as the opening strains of Whitney’s ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ kick off. I wonder how many times I’ve listened to someone sing this badly.

Except … You know what I was saying about people not taking themselves too seriously at karaoke? Well, this one’s got to be a major exception. The girl on stage is wearing a tight top and jeans, a pair of severe black heels protruding sharply out the ends. She’s moving like she’s in a music video, without a trace of self-consciousness. The only time she appears aware of her surroundings is when she catches a glimpse of one of the cameras. I tell myself to get used to this: over the coming weeks we’ll have plenty of wannabes descending on the club, hoping to catch the attention of some talent scout.

I lift the crate into my arms and push my way through the crowd, glasses head-high so I can scarcely see where I’m going. Normally the thought of stacking an industrial-sized
dishwasher wouldn’t fill me with pleasure, but the atmosphere in here is starting to give me a headache. I could do with some time out.

‘Excuse me,’ I tell the guy blocking my way. He doesn’t shift so I push into his back a bit with the crate. ‘
Excuse
me.’

But instead of moving, he turns to me. Through the foggy glass I can just about make out he’s dark-haired, but the image is vague and distorted.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’

I recognise that voice.

‘This is heavy.’ My arms are threatening to quit. ‘Can you get out the way?’

‘It’s Maddie, right?’

I sigh – this guy isn’t giving up. Do I know him?

‘Uh, give me a sec,’ I bluster, feeling harassed. I blow a strand of hair out my mouth. Shit, these crates are leaden – we’re so unaccustomed to them being full that I feel like I’m lifting a teenager. I rest it on the bar and look up.

And I’m face to face with Mystery Man.

He’s just as gorgeous as I remember. And he’s wearing a suit. My god, he looks good in a suit. And even though I hadn’t forgotten how grey and serious his eyes were, how dark his hair, my memory hadn’t done justice to the impact of him in real life.

‘Hi,’ I squeak. Suddenly I’m conscious of the mess of my hair, the hint of sweat on my top lip, that livid-pink blotch I get on my chest when I’m embarrassed.

‘Hi. The club’s looking great, I’m really happy with it.’

‘Er, thanks.’ My heart’s going crazy. ‘Do you like karaoke, then?’

He laughs. ‘Not a massive fan, I must admit.’

I laugh too, and it comes out very loud and brash. ‘Me neither!’ I exclaim, as though we’ve just discovered a surprising shared horror of something really anodyne, like white bread.

‘You’re the one running a karaoke bar,’ he smiles. He’s sexy.

‘Well, I’m only doing it for my parents,’ I explain, ‘while they’re away. Between you and me, my worst nightmare would be getting up on that stage.’

Mystery Man considers this. ‘Yeah, it’s probably mine too – several disastrous episodes at school plays, it’s put me off for life. But it depends what I had to sing. Some are worse than others. M People, for instance …’

It’s my turn to laugh. Then, for what seems like ages, we stand there looking at each other. It’s unlike me to be lost for words, but I really am.

‘So what are you doing here?’ I ask eventually.

He shakes his head, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’