Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (34 page)

Ooh! I spy a copy of
Take a Break
amid the trendy A3 magazines, no doubt left behind by some unsuspecting visitor, and land on it with glee. It falls open on the Top Tips section, and I have just enough time to read about recycling an old handbag by filling it with soil and using it as an outdoor planter when the door to Evan’s office opens and a buxom brunette steps out into the corridor. She can’t be much older than me, dressed in a foxy skirt suit and precarious heels, and is laughing like a schoolgirl. I hold the magazine up high to my face, peering over the top like a lame Jessica Fletcher, and watch, horrified, as Evan delivers a swift sharp slap to her bottom.

Somehow I don’t believe that’s his wife. And it’s certainly not Alison.

Bastard!

The woman emerges into the lobby red-faced and flustered, before taking the spiral stairs down. New Receptionist is studiously pretending not to notice.

‘Maddie Mulhern!’ booms Evan, rumbling my
Take a Break
disguise but seeming unruffled by my surprise appearance. ‘What brings you here?’ He strides over and grabs my hand. His palm feels doughy and moist, and I withdraw my own quickly.

‘I wanted a word,’ I say, carefully replacing the magazine on top of its pompous counterparts, just to see the shadow of derision pass across his face, which, sure enough, it does. ‘In private, if we can?’

The receptionist’s eyes brush over me, and I have no doubt she suspects I’m the latest of Evan’s conquests. Maybe she’s one, too? The thought makes me ill.

‘I’m in meetings all afternoon,’ he says, a tad irritably. ‘Regina?’ He doesn’t bother turning round to address her. ‘Who have I scheduled for lunch?’

‘No one, Mr Bergman,’ replies Regina dutifully. ‘Matt Howard at CVN called to say he was making an emergency trip to Gloucester: something about his wife tripping over a dog?’

‘Hmm, yes, we spoke. She didn’t trip over the dog; she sat on it.’ He nods, remembering. ‘She’s very large, as I recall. And the dog is small. Was small.’

The information floats uncertainly in the air a moment, Evan gazing into the middle distance and Regina with her lips slightly parted, and me just standing there looking between them, before he snaps back to reality.

‘Well then,’ he says, crocodile grin flashing and vanishing, like the searching beam of a lighthouse. ‘Isn’t that a good excuse to take you out?’

‘Really, Evan – this won’t take a minute—’

‘Walk with me,’ he barks, taking my arm and leading me downstairs. ‘I’ve been cooped up in a hot and sweaty office all morning. I could do with some fresh air.’

It takes a good ten minutes before Evan decides on a suitable tea shop. He’s particular about finding this one that does a special kind of cake (a tea cake? Evan Bergman? Wonders never cease), so we have to go traipsing round the back of Regent
Street, him striding ahead and me desperately trying to broach the subject I came here to address, but finding it difficult with only a burly shoulder to talk to. When we pass Hamley’s for the third time in a row and someone outside in a jester costume blows bubbles in my face, I fight an urge to grab the nearest Beefeater teddy and strangle it with my bear hands. I mean my bare hands.

Eventually we come to a quiet little square around the corner from Reiss, and I promise myself that if this goes well I’ll treat my wardrobe to something new. The idea gives me a boost, so as soon as we’re sitting down – Evan picking the currants out of his buttered tea cake and me baffled as to why we’ve just chased this imperfect tea cake around central London – I brace myself for the announcement.

‘Evan, I’m going to be straight with you.’

He looks up, but doesn’t speak. They’ve provided him with a very small tea cup, the sort girls play with in Wendy houses, and when he wedges a fat finger in the porcelain handle I wonder if he’ll ever get it out again.

My heart’s galloping. ‘I’m quitting the show,’ I say, and to my relief it comes out firm and strong.

Slowly Evan replaces the cup in its saucer with a little tinkle. Then he dabs the corners of his mouth with a napkin. I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t.

I feel the need to elaborate – despite the fact I know one of the best knacks in negotiation is to remain silent. I guess I’m not a negotiator.

‘We’ve all been hurt,’ I begin. No, that’s not right: a man like Evan doesn’t deal in emotions. ‘What I mean is, we’ve been
affected by … things you’ve done and …’ Argh. Where’s that speech I rehearsed a million times? ‘Er … machinations … acceptability … unreasonable things … um, all in all, don’t feel it’s … well, not fair.’

That’s great. Very grown up. I may as well stand in the middle of the cafe, stick my fingers in my ears and stamp the ground, shouting, ‘It’s not fair! It’s not fair!’

‘The club is grateful for Tooth & Nail’s investment,’ I go on, at last hitting my stride, ‘but in my view there’s been a great deal of dishonesty from the outset. On those grounds, Evan, I’d like to terminate the contract.’ This last part comes out very fast, like the last well of water being sucked down the plughole.

I’m staring at the wooden table, my eyes fixed on a mark the boot-shape of Italy. I’ve said my piece; it’s over.

Except it’s not. Because Evan’s still not doing anything.

For a second I wonder if the tea cake’s poisoned him, and in a brief agreeable moment – though of course a completely evil and dreadful one – I wonder if he’s choked on a currant and has just expired in his seat.

But that’s before I realise he’s laughing.

‘Ah, Maddie, you’re a funny girl,’ he chortles, wheezing a little.

I don’t get it. I look up, waiting for him to take me seriously.

But he keeps on laughing. ‘Honestly, you really had me there.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

He wipes his eyes. ‘You’re not serious.’ Then, ‘Oh, my girl, you
are
!’ He tuts. ‘You really think that’s your decision to make?’

‘It
is
my decision to make,’ I say, looking him squarely in the eye. ‘We own the premises and therefore without my permission you’re unable to film there. No filming, no programme.’

Finally Evan appears to gather himself, spreading his large hands on the table and addressing me directly. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he drawls, like I have trouble grasping basic concepts. ‘But the problem is that you
have
given us permission, Maddie. That’s what a contract is for.’

‘There’s a break clause,’ I say, struggling to right myself in the wake of his indifference. This is not the reaction I expected. Frustration, definitely; anger, maybe. Possibly some begging for me to reconsider, to which I would have pretended to chew it over before sadly shaking my head, rising with great dignity from the table and leaving him weeping into his china cup.

He starts laughing again, longer and louder this time, so that several people at nearby tables turn to look at us. Then he stops, puts his tea and saucer aside and pins me with a stare.

‘There
is
a break clause,’ he says, voice thickened with enjoyment. ‘And there’s also a break clause fee. Are you telling me you want to pay that?’

‘Yes,’ I say, pleased the message is finally getting through. So what if we have to draw money down – Pineapple’s making more than enough and, for the first time, I believe in our ability to sustain it, with or without the show.

‘Lovely.’ Evan sits back. ‘In that case it’s settled.’

My heart soars. That was so easy. Now I can tell Lou and she’ll forgive me and be my friend, and everything can get
back to normal. I’ll never have to see Evan Bergman or Nick Craven ever ever again. ‘Really?’

‘Why not?’ He smiles. ‘I’m a rational man. I’m not going to force you to stay in a situation you’re unhappy with.’

‘Well,’ I say, thrown by this unexpected fairness, ‘that’s good of you.’

‘Shall we say Wednesday for the money?’ The smile doesn’t slip. ‘That gives you a couple of days to rustle up the cash. A hundred thousand straight into Tooth & Nail Associates would be ideal, but on this occasion, because I’m fond of you, Maddie, I’ll accept a cheque.’ He tears a hunk of muffin with his teeth, releasing a clear buttery liquid that dribbles down his chin.

My mouth falls open. ‘I’m sorry,
what
?’

‘A hundred thou,’ Evan says breezily, signalling for the bill and patting his pockets for his wallet, first the ones on his crisp linen shirt and then his suit trousers.

‘Don’t be absurd,’ I splutter. ‘That’s silly money. You know we can’t afford that.’

‘You can’t?’

‘Of course we can’t!’

‘Oh.’ He pretends to mull it over, before shaking his head sadly. ‘Ah well, it looks like you’re stuck with me for the time being, then, doesn’t it?’

I flip. ‘The contract said nothing about the fee being so high. There’s no
way
I would have missed that – you’re lying.’ The old lady on the table next to ours is busy listening to everything: her hearing aid’s probably tuned in to conversations happening eighty miles away.

But in truth I signed the contract when my mind was elsewhere – it could well have mentioned a break clause fee.
A ‘sum to be determined’ or some such, no doubt. Evan’s got my hands tied and he knows it.

‘Don’t look so mad,’ he soothes, like someone comforting a child who’s just dropped their 99 Flake head-down on the pavement. ‘Think how far you’ve come – you wouldn’t have been in a position to offer
any
kind of break clause fee this time eight weeks ago!’

I glare at him. ‘I wouldn’t have had the need to, then, would I?’

‘Let’s not get hung up on the details.’ He waves a hand dismissively. ‘Think of it as paying for a service. You’ve paid for my ideas and, I think you’ll admit, my ideas have in turn paid off for you.’

I shake my head. ‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘Everything the club is now comes down to the people who work in it,’ I say. ‘And that has nothing to do with you. All you’ve done is try to split us apart.’

He jabs a finger at me. ‘The people who work in it! Precisely. When I arrived you were all nobodies, and now you’re
someone
. Maddie, you never would have made the necessary changes – after all, I know what works for TV.’ He feeds his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

‘What changes?’

‘A bit of eye candy for the ladies on a weeknight, nothing wrong with that …’ Evan places his hands on his stomach, sated. ‘Better than some boring old fart, in any case. Who wants a fogey on the box on a Saturday night?’

I swallow. ‘I hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are.’

‘All it took was a nice fat wad of cash,’ Evan sneers, ‘and dear old Archie was putty in my hands.’ He’s in my face, his voice a low hiss that releases intermittent bursts of saliva. ‘They all are, sweetheart. It’s about the money, every last penny of it. That’s what drew you to me in the first place. Go on, admit it: it was the sweet, sweet smell of cash. All your precious Archie’s guilty of is that he wanted the exact same thing. You wouldn’t deny a man life’s greatest pleasure, now, would you?’

‘You paid Archie to leave?’ I gasp.

‘He was only too happy to oblige.’

‘He was happy with us.’

‘But happier elsewhere, with tens of thousands of pounds in his pocket. Why shouldn’t he retire in luxury?’

I’m shaking. When Mum and Dad find out about this, they’ll be so upset. They’ll be distraught. Why didn’t I see this before? They wanted to keep the club, yes, but not necessarily for the business – it was for the people they employed. Their friends. Their loved ones. It didn’t matter about the cash. Why did I have to go and stick my stupid oar in?

‘How could you?’ I choke. ‘You lied. You got Archie to lie to me, too.’

Evan rises to his feet. He calmly dusts the crumbs from his shirt, before bending down to deliver his last words. They drip into my ear like poison.

‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ he spits. ‘I’m a very powerful man – I’ve worked hard to be where I am – and you’re not being clever. It wouldn’t be difficult for a man in my position to destroy years of your precious parents’ hard work, now,
would it? After all, it was
me
who facilitated Pineapple’s comeback,’ he jabs a finger at his chest, ‘so it’s
me
who can bring it back down. I could break you before I’ve even had my breakfast in the morning, Maddie: you and the people you care about. Have I made myself clear?’