Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (21 page)

‘Maddie! Thank god. When do you want me downstairs this evening? Usual time?’

‘Yes, yes, fine,’ I say, pushing my way in.

‘Evan told me Uri Geller’s making a guest appearance tonight!’

‘That’s great.’

‘Isn’t it? Do you think if I ask him he’ll bend my—’

‘Not now, Davinia!’

‘But—’

I slam the door. Right. Action stations. (
Action stations?
I must be feeling giddy.)

Fifteen minutes later I’m showered and dressed. I’ve never been a girl who takes ages getting ready and, besides, I’m only meeting Nick for coffee – it’s not like it’s a date and, even if it
were
, I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. No, I’ve kept it simple: a (dry) pair of dark blue jeans, a coral-coloured top, quick brush of the hair and a generous lick of mascara.

I throw on a jacket and flee downstairs, stopping briefly to check my reflection in the hall mirror and slow my heart. It wouldn’t do to emerge sweating and panting like a race-horse.

When I open the door I’m expecting to see Nick outside, and I panic for a minute before remembering I ordered him to wait over the road. Feeling ashamed at my earlier lack of
manners, I cross and enter the little cafe. I spot him immediately, reading the paper with a serious expression and an almost-drunk cup of coffee in front of him.

‘Hello.’ I smile when he looks up.

‘Hello.’ He smiles back.

‘Can I get you another?’

He stands up. ‘I’ll buy – but look, the sun’s come out.’

I turn round. He’s right. In all my haste I completely didn’t notice. The rain on the road is glistening in the light of the late afternoon, all the world bathed in amber, and the lines of things seem clearer, more defined, like a painting.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I say.

Nick gets the drinks and we head back out. It smells lovely, as only things do after rain. I’m conscious of him walking alongside me and the heat of the cup in my hand, the steam rising and warming my face. We peel off into the side roads because they’re quieter, and I have to hurry to keep up with him.

‘Do you always walk this fast?’

He doesn’t reply. Instead he smiles and places a hand gently on my back. It feels like electricity.

Minutes later we emerge into Soho Square. Nick finds a bench and lays the newspaper down in sheets. Each one soaks up the wet, turns grey, and he keeps doing this till it’s dry enough to sit. I blow on my drink to cool it down and watch the rest of the world hurry past in rush hour, feeling as if we’re on an island in the middle, a still amid the chaos.

‘Are you happy with how things are going?’ Nick asks, and I’m reminded that despite my jittery feelings, we’re only catching up about the show.

‘Very,’ I say. ‘I met with Evan yesterday and he’s pleased, too.’

A look of alarm passes over Nick’s face, before he corrects it. ‘Did he say anything else?’

I shake my head, deciding not to tell him about Evan’s suggestions for creating more drama. Nick’s the director – if he wants to come to me with a similar request he can have the balls to voice it himself.

‘What made you want to do this?’ he asks after a moment. Said in an offhand way, it wouldn’t sound odd, but the way Nick says it seems off-kilter.

‘We needed it,’ I say carefully. ‘The ad Tooth & Nail placed said it all.’

He nods thoughtfully.

‘And really it’s for my parents,’ I prattle, uncomfortable with the silence. ‘I want them to feel proud of it like they used to.’

Nick’s face breaks into a grin. ‘Pineapple Mist … happy memories.’

‘Oh?’

‘School discos. That and T’Pau.’

I groan. ‘I think I can safely say I’ve
never
danced to that song.’

‘Which one?’

‘Mum and Dad’s. How weird would that be? It’s bad enough hearing it on Magic FM.’

Nick smiles, looks at me sideways. ‘“What You Do” is a classic. Come on, admit it.’

‘Ooh ooh.’

He looks at me like I’m mad. ‘What?’

‘You missed the “ooh ooh” bit off the end,’ I say, ‘the bit in brackets. It’s very important, that bit.’

‘Oh, sorry.’ He grins. He’s
so
fit. ‘But as the stuff in that era goes, your parents had one of the best.’

‘Compared with what, “Agadoo”?’

‘Shit, I forgot about that.’

‘Exactly. These are the horrors I’m reminded of every day.’

Nick laughs, and it comes from deep inside, a proper laugh. ‘OK, so top five singles of the eighties. You first.’

‘Sure you want me to go first?’

‘Sure.’

I reel them off. ‘New Order, “Blue Monday”. OMD, “If You Leave”. Band Aid, “Do They Know it’s Christmas”—’

‘Come
on
. And to think you started so well.’

‘What?’

‘You can’t have Band Aid.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s a Christmas song.’

‘So?’

‘It’s cheating. It’s like having Brussels sprouts in July.’

‘You can’t compare Bob Geldof to a Brussels sprout.’

‘I can compare Midge Ure to a Brussels sprout. Same forehead.’

I giggle. ‘Anyway, I disagree. Don’t tell me you’re vetoing a charitable cause.’

‘Not fair.’

‘Do you want me to go on or not?’

He smiles. ‘Please.’

‘The Boss, “Dancing in the Dark”. New Kids on the Block—’

‘No, sorry, got to stop you there.’

‘Why?’

Nick looks disgusted. ‘New Kids?’

‘The first and original boy band.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting The Beatles?’

I shake my head. ‘Not the same thing.’

‘Some would argue with that.’

‘I’m sure Paul McCartney wouldn’t.’

‘What, that he formed the inaugural mould upon which pop bases a lot of its ideals?’

‘No, that he was the precursor to the Knight brothers and Joey-Joe McIntyre.’

Nick winces. ‘When you put it like that. Anyway they were early nineties, so it’s disallowed.’

‘If you’d let me finish my entry, you’d learn that “The Right Stuff” was 1989.’

Another cringe.

‘Actually it was “You Got It” and then “The Right Stuff” in brackets.’

‘Are you obsessed with brackets, or what?’

‘Yes. It’s one of my main infatuations, along with spirit levels and isosceles triangles.’

‘Fine, you win.’ He hides a smile in his drink. ‘And you’ve been asked that before, I can tell.’

‘What?’

‘The top five thing. OMD’s the one you like best. Even if Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark is one of the wankiest names for a band I’ve ever heard.’

‘How d’you know it’s my favourite?’

‘
Pretty in Pink
. The Andrew McCarthy effect.’

‘
I
never fancied Andrew McCarthy.’

‘Liar.’

‘Really!’

‘The other one, then.’

I shake my head. ‘I just love that song.’

‘You love it?’

‘Yes, I love it.’ I smile. ‘Anyway, the list isn’t definitive. Ask me again tomorrow.’

A cyclist rides past, wheels slick on the glossy road. We watch for a moment.

‘Your turn,’ I say.

‘Do they have to be chart numbers?’

‘Of course. Why, are you planning to hit me with something really obscure? I think I can handle it.’

‘OK.’ I notice his leg going up and down fast, like he’s cold or nervous, I can’t tell. ‘Dexys Midnight Runners, “Come On Eileen”. The Jam, “Going Underground”. Marrs, “Pump Up The Volume”. The Police, “Don’t Stand So Close to Me”. Phil Collins, “In the Air Tonight”.’

‘Phil Collins?’ I nearly splutter out my tea.

‘What?’

I pretend to be disappointed. ‘You just didn’t seem the type …’

‘Come on! That’s a serious drum solo.’

‘All right, aside from that it’s not a bad selection. And I suppose it’s preferable to “A Groovy Kind of Love”.’

‘I like that one too.’

I laugh again.

‘You think I’m joking.’

‘What sort of music
do
you like?’ I ask.

‘Difficult question.’

‘Not really.’

‘You’re not going to ask me for top three albums or anything, are you? I don’t think I could answer that.’

‘Favourite band of all time. You’ve got ten seconds to think about it.’

‘Harsh!’

‘Eight seconds.’

He warms his hands on the polystyrene cup. ‘The Smiths. But don’t hold it against me.’

‘Why would I hold it against you?’

‘You might.’ He meets my eye and once again I think how dark and gorgeous his are, and for a second I feel like we’re not talking about The Smiths any more. Self-conscious, I look away.

‘How was it growing up with Pineapple Mist, then?’ he asks, smoothly changing the subject. ‘That must have been pretty crazy.’

I nod. ‘It was. Fun, though.’

‘I bet.’

‘I always used to get jealous of my friends’ parents, which sounds terrible – but things like holidays, I used to wish I could be like everyone else and come back after the summer and tell the class I’d been to France or Spain, or even that we’d had barbecues in the garden or anything … normal.’ I shake my head. ‘Instead we went traipsing round Butlins or Pontins or whatever, Mum and Dad performing that one bloody hit all through the holiday season to a load of disinterested punters … it was the same old story, year after year.’ I think back. ‘This was early nineties, so I guess there was an element of
flogging a dead career. They never complained about it, though – they were still living their dream.’

Nick smiles. ‘And now?’

‘Now I wouldn’t change it for the world. It was unusual, it was different; things you hate when you’re young and value when you’re grown up.’ I put my cup down on the arm of the bench and rub my hands together to keep them warm. ‘Also, it was fun. I made loads of friends, kids whose parents were doing the same thing.’ I blow on my fingers. ‘I always wanted a brother or sister but it didn’t happen, so I loved that aspect of it. It’s where I met Lou.’

‘Lou’s nice.’

‘Yeah. Her folks were doing the same thing. They were in a foursome with another couple, sort of like Abba but not … I think they were called The Diamond Duos or something like that. Anyway, they were desperate for success – to the detriment of everything else. They never “made it” in the commercial sense, they never got a deal or anything, but they used to tour the circuit, same places as us. Lou had a rough ride of it. My parents are mad but they always took care of me; I always came first. Hers were too bound up in themselves to care.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘I know. She always used to hang out with us. That’s how we became close.’

‘So you don’t wish it were different? Your upbringing, I mean.’

‘No.’ I like that I don’t have to think about it. ‘I wouldn’t swap it for anything. Even if they did force me to meet Timmy Mallett one terrifying summer at a festival in Scunthorpe.’

Nick laughs. ‘We won’t be seeing you on stage any time soon, then?’

‘God, no!’ I exclaim. ‘I couldn’t think of anything worse.’

He sits back. ‘I’m with you on that.’

‘You are?’

‘Yeah. Much more comfortable listening to music than anything else – you’d have to take one of my limbs to get me to even hold a microphone. The dancing’s nearly as bad as the singing.’

‘It would be with a limb missing.’

‘You’re funny.’

‘Oh come on, I bet you’re a great dancer!’

‘What makes you say that?’ He straightens. ‘My consummate poise and grace?’

‘Ha.’

‘“Ha”? If I didn’t know you better I’d take offence.’

‘We’ll get you singing karaoke before the series is up,’ I tease.

‘Over my dead body.’

‘You really think you’d be any worse than the people we get up there every night? The point isn’t to
be
good. It’s creepy if you’re good.’

‘I wouldn’t be worse. I’d just deliver something … upsetting.’

‘Upsetting?!’

‘I’m not kidding. I’m really awful. Children will run screaming.’

I giggle. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

He shrugs.

‘Anyway, enough of my story,’ I say. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

I almost regret asking. But I have to. There’s a fist of happiness in my chest that feels like trouble, and I have to keep reining myself in every time I remember how he got here. Whether he’s real or not. There’s the Rebecca Ascot affair, the stuff that was written about him. Then there’s the fact that, perhaps more worryingly, he’s in Evan Bergman’s pocket. I just don’t know if I can trust him. I want to, but I can’t.