Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (36 page)

My eyebrows shoot up.

‘Not like that,’ he hurriedly clarifies, ‘not like that at all.’

‘Right.’

‘I hadn’t had work in months. And I figured: if they’re not
hiring me in light of my … past misdemeanours, why not try working for someone who’ll hire me
because
of them?’

If this is meant to impress me, it’s not.

‘Evan wanted the romance and I agreed. Evan wanted the kiss, and I—’

‘Sorry,’ I interrupt with a harsh laugh, ‘is this supposed to be mitigating?’

‘But not there. Not then. I wasn’t supposed to kiss you then.’

‘Oh, right! Any preferred time and date you’d like me to show up?’

He closes his eyes. ‘It took me by surprise, OK?’

‘Me too. A really fucking horrible surprise, as it goes. And you were perfect for it, weren’t you?’ I can’t help myself. ‘I bet Evan couldn’t believe his luck. I bet you couldn’t either. So much for integrity, Nick.’

‘There’s more to it than that.’

‘I’m sorry it’s been such a hardship for you,’ I choke.

‘It hasn’t. Not a second.’

‘Then tell me what’s so bloody complicated. Tell me what the problem is.’

Silence, before he looks down at his hands. ‘I can’t.’

I feel cold. ‘Fine. I guess you’re not the person I thought you were.’

Nick sits back, lifting the cushion from behind him to make way before realising it’s an embroidered headshot of Noddy Holden. Gingerly he replaces it.

‘I am that person,’ he says, his dark eyes on mine. ‘For starters, you’ve got to know the Rebecca Ascot thing was misunderstood.’

I wait.

‘She’d been pursuing me for months. Every event I went to, she turned up; every time I got hired, she’d wangle it so her husband’s channel was somehow involved; every party I was invited to, she claimed to have a mutual friend. She was … well, she was
stalking
me.’

‘Please don’t,’ I say, spying my parents’ Smash Hits ‘Best Live Performance’ award and just about managing to stop myself throwing it at his head. ‘Don’t make out like you’re the victim of an unhinged woman who couldn’t help herself. It’s terribly dated.’

‘I’m not making anything out,’ he responds. ‘She wanted to escape her marriage. She was miserable. I guess she picked me to help her – only she didn’t bother telling me about it first. So here we are.’

‘You were helpless to resist her charms. Of course. Sorry I’ve been so quick to jump to conclusions – clearly you were forced to kiss her and get photographed doing it.’

‘In a way I was,’ he claims. ‘Rebecca organised the whole thing. She tracked me down at an album launch – of course I tried as politely as I could to ignore her, but even then she spent most of the evening draped off me – then as I was leaving she opened the door to my cab, climbed in and started kissing me. The paparazzi went mad and the whole thing got splashed around the tabloids the next day. That’s all there was to it. When Pritchard Wells saw the evidence it signalled the end of their marriage – and of my career. So no prizes for guessing who came off worst. If I saw that woman again, believe me, I’d have a few words for her, though we both know any altercation would see me coming off as some bitter
spurned lover. Sometimes you can’t win in this game.’ A short, dry laugh. ‘You don’t need me to tell you how things can get twisted to look a certain way.’

‘And you’ve got the nerve to sit here and
complain
about that?’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Managing situations to your own ends is precisely what you and Evan have been doing to me. Come on, Nick, you have to see the irony.’

‘I do. And I’m ashamed of it. But this job was the first I’d been offered in a very long time, and I promise you, I promise I never expected to feel—’

‘You promise?’ I realise I’m trembling, though with anger or upset or just plain coldness I’m not sure. ‘How can you expect me to believe anything you say?’

‘Because I’m asking you to.’

‘Well don’t bother.’

‘I’m not a bad guy, Maddie. I’m not.’

‘Then say what the matter is. What can’t you tell me?’

A muscle pulses in his jaw. It’s unbelievably sexy and for a moment I can’t believe someone as beautiful as him is sitting here in front of me, in Mum and Dad’s apartment no less, against a backdrop of Dave Stewart, Frankie Goes to Hollywood and The Boomtown Rats. But he’s still a bastard.

‘I guess it doesn’t matter now,’ he says, in a stiff voice I haven’t heard before, ‘since you’re back with your boyfriend.’

I let him hang a second. ‘I might be.’

He gives a brief, matter-of-fact nod. ‘That’s another reason I came here tonight. I have to warn you.’

‘To warn me? About what exactly – getting involved with
you? Thanks, Nick, but you could have done it a few weeks back. That would’ve been much more helpful.’

‘No. Listen to me. Evan has something planned for the live show. I don’t know what but I fear it involves Lawrence Oliver. I heard him talking it through with Nathan last week. I’m worried for you – you don’t know what that man’s capable of.’

I blink. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I think Evan wants to cause trouble for you next Friday.’ He looks at me seriously. ‘He’s got it in for you, Maddie – don’t ask me why but you’ve rubbed him up the wrong way and he doesn’t like it one bit. That combined with smashing his ratings record is too much to resist.’

‘What’s that got to do with Lawrence?’

‘God knows. That’s what I’m concerned about.’

I try to find evidence that he’s lying – a jiggling knee, a wandering eye – but he’s addressing me directly. ‘Lawrence and I have known each other for ages,’ I say, uncertain even as the words emerge, ‘he’d never do anything like that.’

‘I had to tell you what I knew,’ Nick ventures. ‘It isn’t much, especially in light of everything, but I couldn’t stand by and let him ruin the work you’ve put into this place.’

I need to think about this. I need to be alone.

‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ I say briskly, going to let him out. ‘But I can handle myself – and Lawrence.’ I stand back. ‘You should go.’

He doesn’t move. ‘Evan’s ambitious,’ he says.

I open the door. ‘Like you?’

‘I’m not ambitious, I was out of work.’

‘That makes it OK then.’

‘It makes it realistic. Not right, but realistic.’

I turn my head away. ‘Please leave.’

There’s a pause, during which I can sense Nick’s mind ticking over. Maybe he’s remembering his lines, or maybe it’s just hitting home that I’m not listening to any more of his rubbish. I can hear the slow, dejected movements as he gathers his things, rises from the sofa and comes to my side, and I wonder if in a different lifetime we could be two people saying goodbye at the end of the night, kissing each other and not wanting to let go.

I’m about to close the door behind him when I stop myself.

‘Nick, wait.’

He turns to me. ‘Yes?’

‘The stuff we talked about on the bridge that night … the things you told me. I need to know if you were telling the truth.’

His face is sad. He doesn’t even need to say the words; I know the answer from his face and instantly feel sorry I asked.

‘I never lied to you,’ he says gently. ‘How could you think I would lie about something like that?’

I nod. ‘Sorry,’ I say. And I’m trying not to blink because there’s a pool of tears about to brim over and I don’t want him to see me cry.

He reaches out. ‘Maddie …’

But I shut the door and put my head against the wood, knowing he’s only inches away but that we’re a world or more apart.

By the next morning I’ve almost convinced myself that I’ve got nothing worry about.

Almost.

It’s Saturday and we’re six days from the final live broadcast. This time in a week, I tell myself as I make toast and sit down in front of a re-run of
Frasier
, it will all be over. Thankfully Mum and Dad aren’t due home till the following weekend, which gives me time to throw water on the fire of any dubious publicity and try to regain a semblance of normality.

My stomach flips at the thought of Friday’s finale. Even
without Nick’s portentous words, if the first live outing was anything to go by I’m not convinced it’s going to be the best night of my life. I’m hoping the proximity of the finishing line will pull me through.

And yet …

What if Nick
was
telling the truth? What if Evan really has got something dastardly planned, with or without Lawrence? How can I trust him?

These thoughts stay with me while I wash up my plate and make yet another cup of coffee. A signed photo of Bonnie Tyler takes pride of place above the sink and I decide to invoke the help of the Eighties Gods (by whom, contrary to popular belief, I don’t mean Duran Duran): surely I’ve invested enough time and energy in this era that by some cosmic transaction it means I’m now able to reap rewards.

By the power invested in Bonnie Tyler … Hang on, that’s not right. I now pronounce you Bonnie Tyler. No, wait a sec.

Our Bonnie Tyler, who art in Eighties heaven, hollered be thy name, thy songs be sung, thy hair be done on earth as it is in heaven; give us this day our waily spread (but not Simply Red) and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against synth pop; lead us not into House Nation and deliver us from R ’n’ B; for thine is the keyboard, the power ballad and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

It occurs to me that I haven’t got drunk in a while – perhaps that’s where I’m going wrong. Right now, though, there isn’t anyone I particularly want to get drunk with … apart from the one person who’s still not speaking to me. Lou.

I’m about to try ringing her for the four hundredth time
when a thought occurs to me, and I wonder why it hasn’t struck me before. Maybe it’s all this talk of approaching insanity, but once the idea’s there it’s difficult to shake off.

Loaf.

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

Hasn’t he been warning me about Evan since the start? And didn’t he say he
knew
Evan?

If anyone is going to have the answers, I decide, it’s him. And I have to find out what they are. Even if, I concede as I hug the warm cup close to my chest, I might not want to.

Rock Around the Clock is as dead as usual. The OPEN sign gazes reproachfully back at me as I push open the door, hearing the sad, lonely tinkle of the bell as I enter the shop.

‘Hello?’ My voice gets swallowed in the silence. ‘Anybody here?’

There’s an open comic on the cash desk, a bundle of keys and what appears to be a half-eaten blueberry muffin, so I decide Loaf can’t be too far away. I have a sudden vision of his shop populated by plastic limbs, all those freaky model throwbacks he’s got hiding in his living room, and feel a shiver travel down my spine. Mannequins should be reserved solely for John Lewis window displays, poorly scripted horror films and romantic comedies starring Andrew McCarthy (if the two aren’t mutually exclusive).

I wonder about for a bit, have a stab at playing ‘Blue Moon’ on a handsome Steinway and, encouraged by this, see if I can remember the ‘Für Elise’ I learned at Grade 3 … I
can’t. So I muck about a bit with half-recalled theme tunes: the start of
EastEnders
(in essence a C major scale but a sure-fire crowd pleaser nonetheless) and that rousing guitar-solo anthem from
Top Gun
(RIP Goose), before I’m reminded of why I’m here. On the edge of my vision something captures my attention: a flounce of white material, appearing and disappearing, like a handkerchief being waved in distress. I flip the piano lid down and it shuts with a satisfying velvety
plunk
, then I stand up and make my way cautiously through to the back courtyard.