Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (26 page)

‘Shh,’ he whispers, ‘don’t speak. What are words anyway? They’re but a distraction.’

They’re
but
a distraction? Was that from a Shakespeare play I saw him in? Is this actually a scene from Shakespeare?

But before I have time to decide, Lawrence’s face is coming towards me at alarming speed, mouth open, eyes closed, and I have to act swiftly. I turn away and he ends up getting a mouthful of my hair.

Abruptly he pulls back. His face has changed, quick and sudden, like he’s peeled off a mask. ‘That’s it then?’

I attempt to look regretful. ‘I’m sorry, Lawrence. I don’t want us to part on bad terms. I hope things work out for you, I really do.’

‘Do I mean so little to you?’ he whines.

‘Of course not. We can still be friends.’

‘I don’t want to be friends,’ he says tightly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. ‘I don’t know what else I can offer you.’ I feel like I’m selling bananas by the pound down the market.

One of Lawrence’s eyes starts twitching at the corner. ‘Let’s just be honest about this, shall we?’

‘About what?’

‘Now you’re on telly you’ve forgotten about the rest of us – that sound about right?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I splutter, insulted.

‘But I’m not good enough for you any more.’ His mouth is twisted. ‘Am I?’

I wait before replying. I think about Pineapple, and how far
it’s come. I think about Lou and Simon, and Jaz, and Rob. I think about the time I’ve spent with Nick.

‘No, Lawrence,’ I say. ‘You were never good enough for me.’

And with that, I walk inside and back into the rest of my life.

Family-sized tub of chocolate ice cream. Check.

Bottle of favourite red wine. Check.

Zero possibility of anyone calling me as mobile turned off. Check.

It’s my first night off in ages. Jaz insisted I took it and I didn’t put up much of a fight – the thought of cosying up on the sofa and watching TV to my heart’s content was far too tempting. Only now I’ve stopped do I realise how tired I’ve been since the show began; I just haven’t had a break. Though it’s still all going on beneath me, tonight Mum and Dad’s flat feels like a safe haven: no Evan Bergman, no Nick Craven, no
cameras and, loveliest of all, no terrible singing (so long as I turn the telly up really loud).

Blast from the Past
starts at nine, giving me just enough time to have a bath before settling down. I’ve only caught bits and pieces so far, but no doubt once the series is done I’ll have ample opportunity to watch: Jaz has taken every imaginable caution to ensure we can indulge in a marathon viewing session at the end of it. It’s the same for everyone – what we know of the show so far we’ve mostly gleaned in snippets from friends and family. Watching a full episode tonight is a wise idea.

My parents’ bathroom is one of the more ordinary spaces in the flat, though that isn’t saying a great deal. The loo seat sports a plastic cover, which might typically show an aquarium of fish, a deep-sea scene or some inoffensive design, but here displays a fetching headshot of Cliff Richard, his ears plugged with yellow headphones (a still from his video for ‘Wired for Sound’, the one where he’s roller-skating through Milton Keynes shopping centre) and a surprised expression on his face, as if he’s just been caught with his pants down – instead of, as may well be the case, catching someone else. I’ve been trying to remember to always leave the loo seat up, as I’m certain Cliff’s eyes follow me about my business and I don’t want anyone’s eyes, least of all his, following me about my business when I’m in the bathroom.

Mum always uses those water bombs with flowers in that make your skin greasy, so I’ve done without bubbles. Now I’m in here, though, I rather wish I had. The bottom of the tub is sprinkled with semi-quavers, meaning that every time I move I think there’s a family of cockroaches scurrying under
my bum. To make matters worse, on the opposite wall there’s a large oval mirror, its frame dotted with tatty old
BIG!
magazine transfers. I remember plastering them on when I was eleven and to this day they’re still there, an unsavoury reminder of the catalogue of my youth. Not only can I see my naked body lolling about in the bath, but Dieter Brummer, Corey Feldman and that thumb-sized Billy Warlock from
Baywatch
can, too.

Afterwards I wrap myself up in my big best fluffy white dressing gown, dry my hair and pour myself a good slug of vino.

Ten minutes before the show starts, the landline rings. At first I dismiss it as someone wanting Mum and Dad, then the thought creeps in that a terrible event might have befallen them in Eastern Europe, and before I know it I’ve convinced myself that their tour bus has overturned on a Siberian dirt track and they’re being held hostage in a shack in the middle of a forest somewhere being forced to sing for their survival. I’d better pick up the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Darling, it’s me!’

‘Mum! Are you OK? Are you in Siberia?’

‘What? No, we’re in Budapest.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’ I twist the phone cord round my finger. (No, it’s not a wireless: who in their right mind would get rid of a perfectly good handset donated to them by Nik Kershaw when he moved out of his neighbouring apartment in 1989?)

‘What’s happening at home?’

‘Oh, same old, same old …’

There’s a crackle on the line. ‘… voted third most popular act of the decade!’

‘Who – you have?’

‘Yes!’

‘That’s brilliant, Mum – listen, I’ve really got to go—’

‘I heard about Lawrence seeing someone else, poppet. Are you all right?’

For a moment I’m completely thrown. What? Who? How? They’re supposed to be safely bundled away in Siberia. They’re not supposed to know
anything
about my life.

‘What do you mean?’ I enquire cautiously.

‘I read he was seeing that Montgomery woman. We met her once, darling, and if it’s any consolation she’s not nice – a very severe manner, not at all friendly, not like you.’

‘H-how did you find out about that?’

‘Oh, I hope I haven’t upset you, poppet. We were in Munich and one of our lot bought a German gossip rag – there was a picture of them together. I recognised him straight away, silly boy. And to think she’s so much older than him!’

‘That’s all? I mean, it didn’t say anything else about him or … or me? Or, you know, anything else?’

Mum laughs. ‘You
are
a funny one. If it did, do you think I could understand it?’

I laugh too, relieved but with a twinge of guilt – I wonder if I shouldn’t have just been honest with them from the start. What on earth are they going to make of everything that’s happened when they get back?

‘He’s not with Francesca any more,’ I say, steering us firmly on to that subject. ‘And anyway, I don’t mind either way.’

‘Well, you say that, but it’s always difficult to see an ex move on. I remember like it was yesterday the night I found out that Bryan—’

‘OK, Mum,’ I interject, wanting to catch the opening of our show and not relishing the chance to hear the intimate details of her previous relationships – especially not that one.

We hang up shortly after, once I’ve reassured her that I really am OK, and I settle down on the sofa and switch to TrueUK, just in time to see the closing moments of the previous offering, which looks like one of those sad budget
Schadenfreude
programmes about someone with three ears or a trunk.

I’m surprised at how nervous I am. I’ve watched the
Blast from the Past
credits before – they’re like a cross between
Big Brother
but without the sinister eyeball thing (swapped with a sinister microphone thing) and, ominously, those of
Hollyoaks
. There’s Jaz blowing bubble gum, me looking awkward (I remember the cameraman telling me to ‘give it’ to him, which begged the question: What is ‘it’?), Ruby with a feather boa, Alex tossing a cocktail shaker in the air (on take twenty-three he managed to catch it). I notice Andre’s now been given his own half-second slot, whiskers twitching as he scampers from left to right, and it makes me laugh.

The first ten minutes of the show is what I expect – Jaz and Alex discussing theme nights, Andre getting his hair done and footage from a
Shrek
-themed birthday party we had in a few evenings back. I’m annoyed to see that Alex is still banging on about the Jaz, Lou and Simon thing – it’s almost like he’s trying to antagonise Jaz over it, which surprises me because I thought they were close. Mostly I’m worried about Lou seeing it. I’m sure she wouldn’t think any more of it than I do, but given her previous suspicions it’s something we could do without.

I’m about to pop up to grab the ice cream when something
on the screen catches my attention. No, they haven’t put it in. They
haven’t
.

The footage is shaky, the camera rushing up the bar steps and out into the street. And then, right there, just as I saw him two days ago, is Lawrence. And me.

Hang on a minute: didn’t I explicitly tell Alison to leave this out? The embarrassment factor’s bad enough for me but it’s Lawrence who comes off looking like a prize fool. I sit back down, worried, hoping it might switch to downstairs but knowing it won’t.

Oh
god
. Lawrence is on his knees now. It’s the other day word for word, everything that happened, from his ridiculous pleas to my own efforts not to laugh, which when broadcast on telly – oh dear – make me look like a total heartless bitch. What’s more, it risks laying us open for a libel suit: while they’ve had the foresight to dub out (badly) Francesca Montgomery’s name, it’s obvious who we’re talking about.

I’m FURIOUS.

I can’t believe it! I made a point of talking to Alison after Lawrence left and expressly made her
promise
to cut that footage out – it’s a breach of privacy; I could have them up for this. It’s her and Evan who have final say on what goes in, so why on earth didn’t they—

Ah, Evan.

Of course.

I’m about to grab my phone, call him on his mobile and tell him just how cross I am, when I stop, take a deep breath, and resolve it’s in my best interests to watch the rest of the show, calm down and ring him in the morning. If I do it now I’ll say
something I regret, and professionalism might be the only thing I have over him right now.

One thing’s for certain: it’s about time someone put Evan Bergman in his place.

The next day, I’m fuming.

I woke this morning feeling cranky and pissed off – so much so that I could barely eat my Coco Pops and watch
The Jeremy Kyle Show
, and that’s saying something. It was double lie detectors, as well.

I’d lain awake for ages after going to bed, imagining all the things I wanted to say to Evan: how he must have known I didn’t want that conversation to go in and not given a shit; how he probably did one over on Alison as well because she was too frightened to stand up to him. And, most of all, how if he’d gone against that request, what else of mine had been completely disregarded in his mission to give viewers something to chew on?

Eventually, in the small hours, I’d worked myself into such a state and was feeling so livid (as only you can when the rest of the world is blissfully asleep and you’re not) that I decided to make a voodoo doll. I remembered Lou gave me this mini one a couple of years ago when a despotic old boss had unfairly docked my pay: you put it in a bowl of warm water and it grows to the size of a Barbie doll. Well, I’m ashamed to say I followed the instructions on the back, stuck a ball of cotton wool on its head which I blasted with some brown – through design or age, I’m not sure – nail polish I found in Mum’s dressing table, and stuck it full of drawing pins. On
waking this morning I was so ashamed that I wrapped it in seven plastic bags and took it to the big communal dumpsters round the back of BHS. (I could have weighted it down with stones and dropped it in the river, but that felt altogether too sinister.)