Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (19 page)

Evan chuckles softly. ‘You’re missing my point.’

‘Perhaps that’s because you’re not explaining it.’

‘Very well.’ Evan nods. ‘Jasmine’s participation will achieve the contrary: it’ll make Louise and Simon realise how they feel about each other, push them into each other’s arms and send them off into the sunset, happy ever after. Better? It’s a classic love triangle. Those brain-dead morons slumped at home on their sofas, pudgy arms buried in a bargain bucket of KFC, are going to lap it up, just like piglets at their mother’s teat: you mark my words.’

There’s so much in that short spiel that disgusts me that I actually make a face.

‘It’s not happening, Evan. I’m not changing my mind.’

Evan heaves a big sigh and clicks his teeth, mindlessly shuffling the papers on his desk.

‘Dear me, Maddie,’ he says, shaking his head infuriatingly, ‘you
do
have a lot to learn.’

I’m really,
really
annoyed. As I emerge on to the scrum of Oxford Street, I decide my instincts about Evan Bergman were spot-on: I don’t like him. At all.

We’re scarcely a week into it and he’s busy plotting sham romances already? Fine, we’re doing a reality show, but isn’t there a difference between allowing cameras into your life and actually orchestrating
scenes
and having to act and lie and mess people about? Especially when those people are your best friends? I can’t even think about it. And Evan’s assumption that I haven’t a clue what the real world’s about, when he’s the one sat in Tooth & Nail Towers with his fake tan and his fake hair and his fake teeth – what’s real about any of that?

Sorry. I need to calm down.

It’s two o’clock. I decide not to go straight back to the club. Maybe I’ll go sit in Costa and eat one of their giant flapjacks, or drop into Holland & Barrett to buy Lou some crystallised ginger (her new weight-loss initiative; apparently it’s a super-food) or walk idly round Liberty and finger all the nice things I can’t afford and pretend I’m Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
.

Or maybe …

For some reason it just pops into my head. Yes, that’s where I’ll go.

With renewed direction, I set off back to Soho, not really knowing why but unsure where else to head. There’s an innocent reason: this is probably the person my parents have known the longest now Archie’s gone, and in their absence I feel the need to check in with the old-timers, get my feet back on the ground and out of what I’m worried is rapidly becoming Evan’s stage set. But I also remember what Loaf said the last time we met:

You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for … Watch your back … Things might not be quite what they seem …

A shiver travels down my spine, despite the warmth of the late-May day. What did he mean? The bigger part of me dismisses his rants as the product of having a few screws loose: anyone who dresses as Meatloaf 24/7 and has a preoccupation with winged mammals taking to the skies has got to be a bit wrong. But my meeting with Evan has unnerved me: what if Loaf’s not as crazy as I first thought?

Minutes later, I’m standing outside Rock Around the Clock. If anything it looks grimier this time – the
OPEN
side of the sign even more tattered and faded than its counterpart – and as before, it’s empty apart from the lone figure wedged behind the till.

The bell tinkles self-consciously as I open the door. There’s a smell I didn’t notice before, like Heinz tomato soup.

‘Hello?’

Loaf looks up from his magazine, spots me and immediately bundles it away, though not before I see it’s a
Star Wars
comic. ‘Hello.’

‘Busy day?’ I smile as I shut the door, meaning for it to come out friendly, but instead it sounds like I’m taking the piss.

‘Actually I did make a sale this morning,’ Loaf says, indignant. ‘Admittedly the first in a while, but even so.’

‘Wow!’ Now it really sounds like I’m being sarcastic. ‘What did they buy?’

Loaf tips his head to one side. ‘Ah, they looked keen on the Rickenbacker 650S … then the girl had eyes on the Yamaha’ – he gestures to a dusty-looking, but still very handsome, keyboard – ‘but eventually they were taken with the Fender Electro Acoustic.’

I’m impressed. ‘So they took it?’

‘Well, not exactly. They left with a plectrum in the end.’

‘Oh.’

‘What do you want?’ Loaf straightens his worn-leather jacket and pins me with a stare. ‘I can’t imagine you’re wanting for too much these days, being a celebrity and all that.’

I fold my arms. ‘I came to see how you are,’ I say, which isn’t a total fib. ‘You haven’t been into Pineapple since we started filming.’

Loaf seems to find this really funny. ‘And you’re surprised? You think I want to hop around with a bunch of fame-hungry teenagers desperate for five seconds on TV? No, thank you very much. Besides, it’s a stupid name. That place is and always will be Sing It Back.’

‘We changed it to match the series,’ I explain, starting to think this visit was a bad idea. Evan’s already made me feel like a stupid kid this morning – I don’t need Loaf doing the same.

‘You mean Evan Bergman changed it?’ He tears open a bag
of prawn cocktail crisps and extracts one with his finger and thumb. His signet ring catches the light on its way past.

‘You know what?’ I turn to go. ‘Forget it. I didn’t come here for a lecture.’

‘Wait!’ Suddenly he’s on his feet. ‘Don’t go. Sit down, please. In fact,’ he looks at his watch, ‘I’ll close for a bit. We’ll go through to the back.’

I peer nervously over Loaf’s shoulder into the room beyond. I’m not sure I want to go anywhere with this person that’s even remotely hidden from view.

‘Come on,’ he says, ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’

I’m about to politely decline when I remember Mum and Dad know him and have for years. What harm can it do?

Loaf turns the sign on the door and leads me out back, where a trio of chipped brown steps takes us down to a courtyard. There’s an old bike propped up against the wall, one Wellington boot and a bin bag that’s been attacked by foxes. To the left is a door with a number 9 on it, but it’s loose on its screw and I wonder if it started life as a 6.

‘My humble abode,’ Loaf says, almost apologetically, as he fumbles to open the door. If Jaz and Simon could see me now, chatting with the local oddball and being let into his flat … well, they’d almost certainly call the police.

Inside, though, it’s surprisingly nice, and not at all what I expected (which was probably something along the lines of the underground water cave in
Phantom of the Opera
, complete with rowing boats and candelabra). It’s tastefully decorated, quite plain – quite
normal
– and there’s no sign of those mucky tortoiseshell carpets that everyone had in the seventies and for some reason I felt sure would feature.

Loaf disappears into a little kitchen, banging mugs about and flicking the kettle on. ‘Go on through!’ he shouts. ‘Door on your right.’

Ah, so this must be the living room. Seems all right: lots of vinyl; nice squidgy couch; old TV that looks like it needs a whack every so often to get it working; nest of wooden tables resting on animal-claw feet, but we’ll forgive those; a glass decanter half-full of honey-coloured stuff, maybe sherry … ooh look, I’ll just be a
teeny
bit nosy and have a peer in this cupboard—

‘ARGGGGH!’

I’m face to face with David Bowie.

Or rather, a life-size mannequin of David Bowie, complete with Ziggy suit. He’s gazing glassily at me from dead eyes lined with glittery pink make-up. Oh my fucking god – Loaf is a
freak
. I knew it. I’ve got to get out of here before he strangles me and stuffs me full of cotton wool or whatever those people who stuff roadkill use and puts me in a cage with dead buzzards and grizzly bears and sells my teeth to an Arab jeweller—

David topples out and smacks me in the face. I think I must black out for a bit, because the next thing I know I’m on the floor and David’s rolling about on top of me in his slippery silver spacesuit. In a panic I wrestle him and get a mouthful of orange hair. Spitting, grappling, I attempt to push him away and end up grabbing blindly at a metallic shoulder pad and ripping it off.

‘What the hell is going on?’

Loaf storms into the room and my heart stops in my chest.

I’m going to die
.

Loaf’s lost it, a long time ago. He’s a psycho, and now I’m trapped in his house. I’m trapped and nobody knows where I am. I could be rotting here for weeks before they find me. I’ll be under the floorboards, buried alive next to a nude portrait of Morten Harket.

Please, god – what did I do to incur your wrath?

I should never have told Ginny Henderson at school that she looked like Ronald McDonald. (But she did.)

Now I’m going to die on a moth-eaten carpet with a life-size prostrate David Bowie
.

Maybe if I lie really,
really
still, Loaf won’t see me.

He sets the coffees down. ‘Oh,’ he says, as if there’s nothing unusual about this scene in the least, ‘you found David.’

Suddenly I can bear it no longer. ‘GET HIM OFF ME!’ I howl.

‘What are you doing?’ chuckles Loaf as David’s lifted from me, dusted off and propped against the wall. ‘Come on.’ He extends a hand but I back away, wild-eyed.

‘What the
fuck
is that?’ I say in a trembling voice. I turn my face away; I can’t look at David, I
can’t
. But David’s looking at me.

‘It’s David Bowie,’ says Loaf. He proffers the biscuit barrel. ‘Custard Cream?’

I’m speechless.

‘Your parents commissioned him,’ he says, amused. ‘They commissioned a host of them for the club last year – we’ve got others on order, too: Freddie Mercury, Sinitta, Billy Idol, Robbie Williams … It’s like a hall of fame. Not quite Madame Tussauds, but you get the picture.’ He sips his drink. ‘You OK?’

I’m slowly getting my breath back. ‘Can you turn him round?’ I gulp, sickened.

Loaf looks bemused, but he does as I ask. ‘Oh no,’ he says, inspecting David once the mannequin’s forehead is safely resting against the wall. ‘You’ve torn his outfit!’

‘I thought he was attacking me!’ I scramble to my feet and check my elbow, which is a little sore after I landed on it.

Loaf looks at me like I’m crazy. ‘He’s not real, you know.’

‘I know that!’ I splutter a defence. ‘He just fell on top of me out of nowhere, what am I supposed to do?’

Loaf tuts and shakes his head. ‘Not exactly nowhere, was it?’ He takes a pew on the sofa and watches me over the rim of his mug. ‘That’s what you get for snooping around other people’s things.’

Maybe he’s right about that. Chastened, I sink on to a sorry-looking beanbag and immediately regret it – it’s so low to the ground that my head’s level with Loaf’s knees and I have to look up to meet his eye. It’s like story time round Grandma’s house.

‘So why are you looking after them?’ I ask, feeling a little foolish at my outburst.

‘Looking after what?’

‘The models.’ I nod towards the back of David’s head, which might actually be creepier than the front – but I’m not about to turn him to find out.

‘The finished products only started coming in a couple of weeks ago,’ explains Loaf. ‘I told your parents they could be delivered to Rock Around the Clock in their absence – they hadn’t forewarned you so thought it wise to wait till they got back.’ He hides a smile. ‘Probably better that way, judging by
your reaction. You should see the one they’ve ordered of Michael Jackson! Now that really
could
have been the real thing.’

I shudder.

‘Have you told them about the show yet?’ Loaf passes me my drink.

I shake my head. ‘It’s going to be a surprise.’ I smile weakly. ‘A good one, I’m hoping.’

Loaf doesn’t say anything, just carries on watching me. ‘And how are
you
finding it?’

I hug my knees. ‘Fine,’ I say honestly, ‘until today. But whatever – I just wanted it to help the club financially – and it has. I mean, it is.’

‘You’ve certainly got the numbers up if the papers are anything to go by.’

‘Hmm.’ I squint at him. ‘You must miss it. You were in every week before. You still could, you know.’