Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (18 page)

Over time Jaz lost faith in her ability and avoided auditions – maybe she wasn’t cut out for fame after all: if Carl was telling her so, and he knew the industry like the back of his hand, then perhaps she should listen. I don’t know the exact circumstances of their break-up but by the end she was a wreck. As far as I can gather she did, thank god, finally find the courage to walk, and packed her stuff and boarded a plane without him knowing. She hasn’t seen or spoken to Carl since, and I hope she never does.

Sometimes I forget this is Jaz’s story: she seems so assured, like nothing can faze her, but there’s a lot of insecur ity buried deep. I think that’s why she makes such a statement with her appearance – it’s all to mask what she wants to keep hidden.

‘How’s Alex getting on?’ Lou asks, changing the subject. Lou’s good like that – sensing when people don’t want to talk about stuff and moving things on like she hasn’t noticed.

‘Great!’ Jaz brightens. She pushes away the rest of her
cake, though, so I don’t think she’s completely OK. ‘He’s really nice, he’s awesome.’

‘Hmm.’ I make a face. Am I the only one who finds Alex unsettling? ‘I’m not convinced, but Evan seems keen.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Jaz pouts. ‘He’s so good with Andre.’

‘He is good with Andre,’ I concede, and I think we’re now in the dangerous territory of beginning to refer to the guinea pig as Jaz’s
child
, ‘but he doesn’t ever seem to do any work! And when he does, I can’t believe he’s got the bar experience he says he has – according to his CV he’s got years, but I’d be amazed if he’d had minutes.’

‘He seems fine to me,’ says Jaz. ‘I really like him.’

‘That’s one for each of you, then,’ I tease, and Lou gives my shin a sharp kick under the table.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask innocently. ‘Are you going into spasm?’

Lou blushes. ‘Shut up, Maddie.’

Jaz looks between us. ‘What?’

‘Lou fancies Simon,’ I tell her. ‘It had to come out sooner or later, so there it is.’

‘Shut
up
!’

‘Well that’s good,’ Jaz fishes some cash out her wallet and slips it under the salt shaker, ‘because Simon fancies Lou. He said so!’

I grab Lou’s arm. ‘Ohmygod. What did I tell you?’

Lou’s tongue-tied, something I haven’t seen before. She’s gone very red and is trying hard not to smile, but I know she’s elated.

‘Lou, you have to ask him out!’ I squeal.

‘Between us, I think he’ll ask you,’ says Jaz, leaning in
conspiratorially. ‘He said he was working up to it.’ She turns to me. ‘Simon’s nervous. I think he’s worried she’ll say no.’

‘But she won’t, will she?’ I nudge Lou and we both laugh. ‘
Will
she?’

‘Maybe not,’ she says, all happy and shy.

‘I suppose what I’m saying, Maddie, is that I’m looking for a little more …’ Evan’s tongue darts out and licks his lips, ‘
drama
.’

With a satisfied sigh, he eases back in his leather chair and narrows his eyes. I can hear a delivery van for Burger King reversing in the car park outside.

‘More drama?’

‘Exactly right.’ Evan points a finger at me as if I’ve just had a Eureka moment – even if he’s the only one who understands it.

A month has passed since I was last at Tooth & Nail, but so
much has happened in the intervening weeks that it could be years ago.
Blast from the Past
has been on for eight days now – I’ve watched snippets of the programme here and there but we’ve been too busy every night to catch a full episode – and Evan wanted to call me in to discuss ‘format development’. As far as I’m concerned the format is perfect: what I’ve gleaned from magazine articles and peering over someone’s shoulder on the tube promotes the club brilliantly: one paper described the club as ‘King Kitsch and the Realm of Retro’, which is great by me so long as Mum and Dad’s name is getting back on the map. I’m feeling pretty happy about it, to be honest. What we’re up to is unconventional, but it seems to be doing the job. It’s even, dare I say it,
fun
. Though that’s mainly down to working each day with a certain someone whose name begins with N and who’s a clever director and who has the loveliest smile and the loveliest hands I’ve ever seen.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that part of me hoped Nick Craven would be at the meeting, hence this morning’s five-times change of outfit. Eventually I settled on a pair of tight black jeans and a smart but sexy lace green top – I figured he’d always seen me in skirts or dresses so I wanted a change (I know: sad, sad,
sad
). Anyway, the only person getting the benefit of today’s efforts is, unfortunately, Evan bloody Bergman.

‘But everything’s going well, isn’t it?’ I cross my legs and something in the set-up makes me think of
that
scene in
Basic Instinct
. Yuck. Forget that. Quickly.

‘Toby seems pleased,’ I say, ‘and Alison. The ratings look good, you said so yourself.’

Evan spreads a pair of fattish hands across the desk. ‘Ah,
but you’re talking to a man with ambition. I won’t settle for good if I can have great.’

‘What are you suggesting, then?’

He goes through the motions of mulling it over, but I can tell he already knows exactly what he’s going to say.

‘I’d like to … help things on a bit.’

‘Help things on?’

‘Yes. I’m not convinced the cameras are catching what they need to.’

‘I haven’t had any problems with them,’ I say. Alison and the crew have been with us nearly eighteen hours a day since launch night, but everyone’s got so used to them now that we don’t much notice any more. At first it was weird, but it’s amazing how quickly you stop caring – especially when there’s a tonne of work to be done. And that’s the greatest thing: since we went on air, Pineapple has been so flooded with punters – Simon had to set up a ticketing system because we were turning so many away at the door – that the labour’s been non-stop. We’ve also had stylists round to plan the next stage of updates: their ideas for the interior are super-exciting, I can’t wait for Mum and Dad to see. When you’re immersed in a job, you don’t really care that Alison’s following you about like a lost puppy begging for food. And anyway, only about two per cent of what they film goes into the final cut.

‘No,’ says Evan thoughtfully, ‘no problems. But I wonder if we could step the action up a notch, give the viewers something to sink their teeth into.’

‘Like what?’

He smiles. ‘Take your argument with Alex, for example.’

I’ve been anticipating this. Ever since my fall-out with Alex the other day, I’ve been conscious that it’s the sort of thing you see on reality shows all the time. Thankfully it wasn’t a blazing, or a particularly interesting, dispute (I had to drag him aside for some stern words when he failed to place our stock order for the third time in a row) but it was enough to get Alison excited. Afterwards I realised the cameras had caught everything, but there was little I could do – especially with lanky Nathan in his customary pissy mood, refusing to engage in an adult conversation for more than five seconds. Besides, I didn’t feel as though I’d acted out of line, and if viewers wanted the real-life workings of a bar, this was occasionally it.

‘That shouldn’t happen again,’ I tell him.

Evan nods. There’s a brief pause. ‘But supposing I wanted it to?’

‘You mean you want me to fight with Alex?’

‘Not necessarily …’ He links his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, as if we’re two holiday-makers striking up innocent conversation by the pool. ‘You must be wondering why I employed Nick Craven.’

The name makes my heart skip a beat – I really need to get a handle on that. ‘Um … he’s a household name?’

‘Not only that …’

‘He’s a good director?’

The eyes fly open. ‘That’s right! And good directors … well, they direct, wouldn’t you say?’

I choose not to say anything, because I know this is Evan’s game: he wants me to feed him his very own argument – whatever that argument is.

‘And the
very
good directors get the absolute best from their cast,’ he barrels on. ‘That’s precisely what I intend to do here.’

I shake my head. ‘You’ve lost me.’

Evan appears validated, as if he fully expected me to be this dim. ‘I’ll explain. Your friend, the blonde one who’s been helping out … What’s her name?’

I’m hesitant. ‘Louise.’

‘Louise, that’s right. Very pretty, isn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘And am I right in thinking …’ he winks at me, and this small movement is more disconcerting than any words he could utter, ‘that there’s a little, how to put it, “chemistry” between her and Simon?’ Evan doesn’t actually do the finger quote marks round the word but he might as well – I can’t imagine he’s used it in any context other than when he was fourteen and it related to the periodic table.

‘They like each other,’ I say carefully. ‘But we’re all good friends.’

‘Well, yes, of course, of course. Some more than others, perhaps.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You see, Maddie – everybody loves a romance. You’d be working wonders for the popularity of the show if you could … let’s just say,
encourage
this a bit.’

‘Encourage what?’

‘Louise and Simon. You know, chivvy them on.’

I can’t help but laugh. What exactly is he hoping for, sex in the middle of the dance floor? Maybe Alex could oversee proceedings by warbling along to Another Level’s ‘Freak Me’? Oh my word.
Shudder
.

But it seems he’s serious.

‘I don’t think they need it,’ I say firmly, ‘they’re working things out for themselves. Let’s leave it at that, OK?’ What does he think I am? There’s no way on earth I’m involving two of my favourite people in Evan’s shenanigans – I’d die if I jeopardised what they might or might not have, and, aside from that, neither of them wanted to be part of this show in the first place.

Evan raises an eyebrow. ‘So the romance is developing without our intervention?’ He makes it sound like mould growing in a petri dish.

‘It’s not relevant, all right?’ I’m surprised by the strength of my conviction. ‘Like I said, just leave it.’

But Evan’s deep in thought, and I can tell I’m not going to like what he’s about to say next.

‘Jasmine’s a little firecracker, isn’t she?’

‘She’s certainly a character—’

‘I agree. She’s a character needing a stage, a role …
direction
.’

God, he’s good.

‘So I was pondering whether,’ his eyes switch to mine, ‘we could introduce her to the mix, shake things up a little?’

‘No.’

He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, though I strongly suspect Evan Bergman doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

‘Hear me out, now, Maddie, let’s not jump to conclusions.’ His voice is smooth, soothing, reassuring. ‘This is what reality TV
is
. Surely you must realise that. Otherwise we’d be out on the street filming any old Joe who wanted to get his mug on the telly – the problem with that is, it wouldn’t be
exciting
.’
Evan nods, liking what he’s saying. ‘I’m an entertainer. Well,’ he clears his throat, ‘of sorts. These days I entertain from behind the scenes; pull the puppet strings, if you like. You must know what it’s like to exist in the wings, growing up with parents like yours.’

I nod, uncertain. There’s a hint of bitterness to Evan’s voice but I can’t work out why.

‘So I make things happen from afar,’ he continues, ‘it’s my job and I’m good at it. But I can’t make things happen without the cooperation of my cast, now, can I?’

‘But we’re
not
your cast.’ I’m starting to lose my temper and don’t want to fall out with Evan this soon into filming. ‘We talked about this at the start.’

Evan doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Look,
Blast from the Past
is about the club, right? Just like I said. But you and your friends are
part of
the club, so you can’t have one without the other. Understand?’

I resent his tone. ‘I told you – I’m not risking Lou and Simon’s friendship. That’s the end of it. You can’t convince me, so don’t bother trying.’