Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (16 page)

‘Well, if you don’t like karaoke, and you’re terrified of certain nineties pop bands …’

Now he looks uncomfortable. ‘Didn’t Evan tell you?’

My heart skips a beat. ‘Tell me what?’

‘I’ve been away this past fortnight,’ he says, suddenly sounding horribly professional, ‘so I haven’t been able to oversee the changes. I did ask him to pass on my apologies.’

My brain attempts to process what he’s saying. It stands to reason that Mystery Man knows Evan – they both work at Tooth & Nail. But how does he know my name? And how does he know I’m running the club? And, hang on a minute: why
is
he wearing that drop-dead gorgeous suit?

I’m so wrapped up in these questions that for a moment I
forget where we are, or what we’re doing – or that there’s a camera pressed right in my face, with a hungry-looking Alison attached to its rear end.

‘Alison!’ I hiss. The red light is blinking and I know we’re on air. What the
fuck
? Why is she filming this?

Evan marches towards us, cleanly into frame. ‘Ah, I see you two have met finally,’ he drawls, pleased as punch.

Mystery Man holds out his hand. It’s a
really
nice hand.

Evan claps me on the back. ‘Maddie, meet your director. I anticipate the two of you getting very close over the next few weeks.’

In a rush I know what’s coming.

‘I’m Nick Craven,’ says Nick Craven.

Of
course
it’s bloody Nick Craven.

But there’s a teensy problem: Nick Craven’s reputation precedes him, and, if reports are to be believed, he’s a complete and utter arsehole.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ I’m determined not to act like a dildo on both occasions we’ve met, and I’m painfully aware there’s a camera hovering somewhere close to my face. Seriously, what
has
this got to do with Pineapple? And where’s Chester Bendwell with his interview and his stupid wheelie trainers?

We shake hands and, though I hate to admit it, a little spark shoots up my arm. It’s such a cliché, but the funny thing about clichés is that they always turn out to be true.

‘You too,’ smiles Nick, though I notice it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Nevertheless I’m eternally thankful that he doesn’t mention our first encounter. I can feel Evan’s eyes on me, drinking in the scene. It’s as if he’s waiting for something to happen.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, determined to retain (regain?) my professionalism. I drag the crate up with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn’t much when I’m unattractively huffing and puffing under the weight of thirty bad-smelling beer glasses.

In the kitchen, alone at last and leaning back against the steel refrigerator, I gather my breath. Seeing Mystery Man again – and making the connection with his name – brings back my own memory of Nick Craven’s misdemeanours. I remember it now: last year, it was. I
knew
I recognised his face. He was splashed all over the tabloids for publicly having it off with Rebecca Ascot, a high-profile anchor woman for Channel 7. They were pictured in a London club all over each other, then again in a black cab at the end of the night. He’s cut his hair since – thinking about it, it was longer then, sort of down by his chin. Maybe he wanted a new look after the episode died down, an attempt to leave the past behind … or maybe it’s because he used to be out in the field working on serious documentaries and lived in a tepee or something and had better things to do than cut his hair, like rescue children and baby seals and whittle miniature things out of wood …

Clever clogs documentary maker or not, Nick Craven was still named and shamed in every single media circle – a scandal that began by igniting the London papers but soon found its way national. Because Rebecca Ascot was married at the time
to Pritchard Wells, the mega mogul network exec and head of buying at the major channel. Back then there had been a string of female celebrities in television who’d been treated awfully by their cheating love rat husbands, and this was a chance to take a woman to task for doing the dirty on her man. Add to that the fact that, if I recall it right, Rebecca Ascot was a few years older than Nick – and strikingly attractive.

Uh-oh … am I jealous?

Before I have time to analyse it, Evan follows me in, a gust of pervy aftershave wafting in his wake.

‘That was perfect,’ he announces, closing the door. ‘You two have such chemistry.’

I put a hand to my forehead: my temples are throbbing. ‘What are you talking about, Evan?’

‘You and Nick—’

‘I know
who
you’re talking about,’ I snap irritably. ‘I’m just a bit confused as to why there was a camera in my face the whole bloody time? I’ve been put on the spot against my will and there was nothing I could do about it, save for making a scene and embarrassing myself on TV. It’s really unprofessional, Evan – you should have introduced Nick and me before now. And besides, I thought the whole point of this was the club, not us – and certainly not
me
.’ I know I’m going on about it – it’s
so
obvious I fancy Nick. Could I make it any more obvious?

There’s a pause. ‘I wasn’t aware the cameras were rolling,’ he says flatly. ‘They should have been with Chester – he was talking to the party who did “The Final Countdown”.’

I don’t believe him – about the not knowing, I mean, not about Chester and ‘The Final Countdown’.

‘I don’t give a shit what Chester was doing,’ I say, ‘he could have been interviewing the Queen for all I care. I want to know why I was being filmed’ – ooh, I’m pointing a finger now, like I’m in a courtroom drama – ‘and what on earth Nick Craven has to do with it!’

Evan nods sympathetically. ‘I’m not sure how it happened,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I really don’t …’

The door opens. It’s Alison. She spots Evan and her face breaks into a grin, and it almost looks like she’s going to embrace him, before her eyes land on me and the smile dies.

‘Oh,’ she says, obviously surprised.

‘Hi,’ I say, cross. Thankfully she’s
sans
camera, but even so my hackles are up.

‘Well, we can ask her ourselves, can’t we?’ Evan turns on Alison. ‘Come on then,’ he waves her in impatiently, ‘shut the door.’

Alison does as she’s told. ‘What is it?’

‘What on
earth
did you think you were doing out there?’ he roars.

Alison looks genuinely bewildered. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That was a
travesty
!’ Evan bellows. ‘Filming Maddie like that when I expressly told you not to. What’s the matter with you, girl?’

Alison’s mouth opens and closes like a fish.

‘You’re to film Pineapple tonight and nothing but Pineapple, do you understand? We went through this just today – are you telling me your pea-brain can’t retain information for longer than six hours?’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I cut in, alarmed at his tirade, ‘there’s no need to get personal.’

‘But …’ gulps Alison, ‘but you said—’

‘My point exactly!’ shouts Evan. ‘But you didn’t follow what I said, did you?’

Alison regards him as if he’s gone completely mad. ‘We had a conversation this afternoon,’ she says slowly, the colour rising in her cheeks, ‘and you said we … well …’ She tosses me a nervous glance, looks to the floor and says nothing more.

Evan’s outburst appears to be over. I think he’s really hurt Alison’s feelings. Suddenly I feel sorry for kicking up such a fuss.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter that much,’ I backpedal. ‘I just want everyone to be on the same page about what gets filmed and what doesn’t.’

‘Of course,’ concedes Evan, getting his breath back. ‘Naturally.’

Alison looks positively furious. Her fists are balled at her sides and she’s scowling at Evan from under her dark fringe with such vitriol that I feel like I’ve … well, like I’ve intruded on a lovers’ tiff. Evan himself looks unperturbed.

A greasy head appears round the door. It’s Nathan, the sound guy. ‘Woss goin’ on?’ he grunts, idly chewing gum. ‘Doesn’t anyone care we’re filming a show out here?’

‘Quick debrief,’ explains Evan, ‘it’s over now.’

Alison’s still sulking. Nathan looks at her, then at Evan, and rolls his eyes.

‘Chin up,’ Evan tells her, giving her an awkward fatherly pat on the back. ‘You’re no good to us with a face like a baboon’s arse.’

Now Alison really does look like she’s about to cry.

I catch her arm as she’s following him out. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Forget it,’ she says miserably, glaring at Evan’s back. ‘It’s stupid.’ She looks at me as though she’s thinking about elaborating, but then decides not to.

‘Come on,’ she says instead. ‘Chester’s waiting for you.’

Lou folds one newspaper, slips it into her over-sized handbag and immediately opens another.

‘According to this,’ she says, flipping it out, ‘Maddie Mulhern is “a buxom brunette with bags of bottle” – and look, here’s a picture of you in front of the bar.’

I peer at the ‘After Dark’ feature, one of about twenty we’ve read on last night’s live show (this one’s titled
PINEAPPLE: MIST CLEARS THE WAY FOR REALITY SENSATION
), and scrutinise the photo. It’s a still from my interview with Chester Bendwell. My mouth is open in response to a question, my
hair’s dishevelled and one of the straps on my dress has slipped suggestively off my shoulder.

‘They make me sound like a wench!’ I cry. ‘And I look like one, too. Give me a push-up bra and a couple of tankards and I’ll be in some Wild West saloon. God, I look gobby.’

It’s Saturday morning and Lou, Jaz and I are in the dressing rooms at H&M. I’m struggling to get a basic cotton dress over my head – at least it appears basic, but each time I think I’ve figured out which arm goes in what hole, I find myself back at square one, tangled up like a squid in a net.

Jaz’s face appears at the side of the curtain. ‘Does that one say anything about me? What about Alex?’

Lou shakes her head, scanning the column. ‘It’s only a small mention anyway – they all are. I can’t imagine
that
many people watched the first show. Wasn’t it on Channel 30 or something?’

‘It was TrueUK,’ corrects Jaz, disappearing back inside to try on outfit number ten.

‘It sounds like a dating line,’ I say, struggling with the zips.

Lou opens another. ‘It’s like I’m reading about a different bar. I can’t get used to it not being called Sing It Back any more – I mean it’s OK, I guess, but the identity’s totally changed. Don’t you think your parents will mind?’

I’m trying hard at the moment not to think about my parents at all – except how thrilled and happy they’ll be when they find out what I’m doing. Which, of course, they will be.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, hoping I’m right. ‘Evan had to twist my arm about it’ – I twist my own arm trying to undo a pesky button at the back – ‘but I can see it makes sense.’

Lou’s eyes widen as she scans the feature. ‘This one says you’re a size eight!’

‘Does it?’ I ask before diving back into the material. ‘They probably meant my feet.’ Even so, I make a mental note to buy that paper more often.

When my head pops out the top, Lou is still wearing a disbelieving expression. ‘There’s no need to look
quite
so alarmed,’ I say primly, lifting my chin.