Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (42 page)

The man next to me takes my hand. Nick. I remind myself he’s the last person I want with me right now, but his grip is so firm I can’t prise free. Against my wobbliness he’s like a rock, and to let go would be like abandoning my ship in a storm.

‘So now I want to let you in on a couple of facts.’ Evan rubs his hands together like a boy in a sweet shop. ‘Call it a gift, from me to you, for your enduring loyalty – and a sign of my recognition that the people of this country have more wisdom than some might give them credit for. You see,
I
don’t believe it’s possible to deceive the viewing public.’ His earnest face fills the screen, beamed into god only knows how many living rooms across the country.

A curious whisper ripples through the assembled company. A girl near us hisses, ‘What’s he on about?’ and her male companion, a Jimmy Nail lookalike with a bolt through his eyebrow, shrugs. ‘Beats me.’

‘This may, at least initially, leave you feeling you’ve been … misled.’ Evan pauses, putting his palm flat against his heart. ‘Which is, of course, against everything reality television – and my production company, in particular – stands for. We seek the truth, and nothing but the truth, and where we can, we deliver it.’

Realisation dawns, and with it an exquisite rush of white relief.

Finally, Evan is going to come good. He’s about to confess everything. How the thing between Simon and Jaz was fake. How he and Nick manufactured every last bit, all the supposed romances, including my own; that they scripted the lot. How Alex wasn’t any part of the bar until days before broadcast and how they fired our longest-serving member in favour
of viewer numbers. How this isn’t reality – it’s about as far from reality as it’s possible to get. How sorry he is for the manipulation and the broken relationships and the hurt he’s caused. And I realise then, amid the daze of this glorious reprieve, that I
will
forgive him. Because it takes guts to stand up there and say what he’s about to say: I couldn’t do it when my moment was up. Evan Bergman is going to do the right thing. At last, he’s doing the right thing.

‘Now then …’ He scans the audience. ‘Where is she? Where’s Maddie Mulhern?’

I’m about to raise my hand when Nick squeezes my fingers. ‘Don’t,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t say anything.’

‘But he’s only—’

The spotlight hits me like a punch, flooding my startled face in clean, blinding light. Evan’s expression hardens. His reptilian eyes glint like knives catching the moon. Something tells me he’s not about to congratulate me.

‘Maddie Mulhern has something to own up to. Don’t you, Maddie?’

I do?

‘This girl right here might have played the innocent all along, got you all on-side, but she hasn’t been entirely honest with you, now, has she?’

Hundreds of faces turn to look at me. My mouth falls open, my mind goes blank. All I’m conscious of is Nick holding my hand. I want to run, but when I try to break free he pulls me back.

‘Your dearly beloved proprietor,’ Evan goes on, his voice hard as stone, ‘has been hiding a ruinous agenda. She’s taken every single one of you for a goddamn
fool
. You see, it has been
brought to my attention – by a reliable source, I might add – that Maddie here plotted her “romance”’ – he does the air quotes – ‘with Nick Craven from the outset.’

A whisper of confusion snakes through the crowd.

‘That’s right!’ he booms. ‘Preying on his sullied reputation, she saw her chance at a quick rise to fame and she took it. It wasn’t enough to be starring in the series of the summer, was it? Oh no, not for Maddie Mulhern. Ladies and gentlemen, it pains me to tell you that
nothing
you’ve seen or witnessed in connection with this relationship has been genuine.’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s not true.’ But my words are drowned out in the clamour of dissent spreading through the bar like wildfire.

‘Now where
is
my source?’ Evan scans the crowd, pleased as punch, a massive replica of his arrogant face plastered across the screen behind. ‘Where is Lawrence Oliver?’

I’m livid. I’ve never been so angry in my whole entire life.

Evan just accused me of his own crime. He’s daring to pin this whole debacle on me.

That’s it. Game over.

Summoning every last ounce of courage, I break free from Nick’s grip and calmly make my way through the crowd. Instantly it stills, dividing to let me through, which makes me feel at once like someone revered and someone nobody wants to touch. Faces on either side, blank in the darkness, watch me with intent; the silence like mud, sucking at my feet, pulling me under.

At last I make the stage, take the three steps up and face my audience. The lighting dazzles me, blinding, so that my audience is little more than a dark swamp. My own hands appear in front of me, pale and ghostly, like someone else’s hands. I take the other microphone from its stand, grip it hard and prepare to speak.

Stage fright hits.

The words disappear. Everything I wanted to say, gone, vanished, like a pebble dropped in water, that first hard splash and then nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I stare out at the room, the hum of expectancy trembling in the air. They’re waiting. Evan’s waiting. Smugness radiates from him like heat – he’s got me exactly where he wants me. And I’ve never looked so guilty.

Someone takes the mic from my trembling hands. Only when he starts to speak do I realise who he is.

‘It
has
been a lie,’ Nick says. I look up at him and his face is blank, unreadable. Beyond him Evan’s features rearrange themselves, delighting in the moment, waiting for Nick to corroborate his story.

It has been a lie.

Of course, that’s it. That’s
it
. The whole thing – maybe even the whole bloody series – has been designed to clear Nick’s name, to make him the injured party and restore his reputation. It makes so much sense now, everything that he did and said and the whole thing with Evan, just an elaborate ploy from the start, the ultimate plan to get an injured man back on top – and after all the wondering and all the angst, the realisation hits me with something like relief.

That same relief restores my confidence.

‘I’m not a liar,’ I say. I’m surprised by how strong it comes out, despite the fact I’m the only one without a mic. ‘I haven’t lied about a single thing.’

Nick turns to me. ‘I’m not talking about you.’

He’s not?

‘I’m talking about Evan Bergman.’ He addresses the crowd. ‘Nothing that man has just told you is true. Nothing he has told any of us since
Blast from the Past
went on air is true. He’s manipulated you, the public, just as he has us. Don’t believe a word he says.’

What?

But I thought …

Evan tosses a strange, high-pitched laugh into the crowd. ‘Hold on just a minute—’

‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Nick’s voice is low, commanding, coming from deep inside. ‘I’ve let you get away with this for long enough – worse still I’ve been a part of it. I’ve taken enough instruction off you, Evan, and I won’t take a single one more.’

Evan’s slack-jawed, the flap of wobbly skin under his chin quivering like a turkey’s. But Nick’s not finished yet.

‘You employed me as your director,’ he says, voice winging through the silence like a bird set free, ‘and yet you’ve been directing me from the start. You say you believe that people out there should know the truth? That the viewers at home deserve your honesty? Then let it begin now, here. Admit it, Evan. Admit that this show was nothing but a scripted farce; a cleverly edited, entirely artificial charade.’

A collective intake of breath rises from the floor like a balloon.

‘And that was your intention from the start. You don’t care about television – not what’s important about it: how information gets shared, how people are entertained, how knowledge is passed on, you couldn’t give a crap about any of that. I’ve never met anyone who cares
less
about television – or about the viewers you claim to work for. What was it you called fans of reality shows only yesterday morning? “Brain-dead thickos gorging on human shit”?’

Evan’s aghast.

‘Is that true?’ someone yells.

‘What’ve we all been watchin’ then?’ another voice cries, distressed. ‘What’s the show been about?’

‘Fucking reality TV,’ a man with a black mohawk scoffs, ‘could’ve told you it’s a load of old bollocks.’

‘You’ve conned the lot of us!’

‘You wanker!’

The heckling gathers pace, the mob becoming ever more rowdy as people shove and push and shout over each other, fired by the injustice of it, drinks getting spilled and fists rattling the air, and from nowhere something hits the stage. I don’t know what it is, but when a second swiftly follows, it hits Evan dead in the face, some sort of bun, making a cool wet slapping sound as it collides with his forehead.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he’s bald. It really does happen that way. The springy mop of hair just wafts off, like a kite on the breeze, travelling a short distance before settling on the stage. I half expect it to sprout legs and scurry off behind the screen.

‘Even your hair’s fake!’ someone cries.

‘Yeah! What else d’you want to tell us about?’

With renewed fervour the hordes refresh their attack, and there’s a rapid surge towards the stage as people attempt to clamber up on to it, reaching for the mics, battling to have their say. I back up, panicked. Evan, red-faced and shaking, scrambles to retrieve the toupée. Mortified, he wedges it on to his head, pulling the sides down like flaps on a cap.

‘
Stay back!
’ he roars, eyes rolling, clutching the microphone to him like a crucifix against vampires. Surprisingly the rabble retreats, sweeping back like the tide on a beach.

‘You really want to believe this man?’ he spits, shooting daggers at Nick, his whole body shaking with rage. ‘This desperate, washed-up has-been? He’s been taken so far in by this floozy he can’t tell his arse from his elbow, that’s all it is.’

‘I’m telling you the facts,’ urges Nick. ‘Evan Bergman is corrupt. He’s corrupted this industry from the inside out.’

A sea of faces looks blankly from one man to the other.

‘You moron,’ Evan hisses, patting his hair frantically, struggling to regain control, ‘you’re even more idiotic than I thought. I gave you your only shot, you imbecile – and this is how you repay me? You’re the one who came knocking on my door, crying into your cornflakes because no one else would come within three feet of you.’

Nick steps forward. ‘And I regret it every single day.’

Evan pokes a finger at him. ‘So if you want to be
truthful
,’ he hisses, ‘why not cough up the whole damn story?’

‘Which rather disproves what you’ve just accused Maddie of.’

Evan must realise the corner he’s walked into. He appears to think for a minute before changing tack. ‘I was trying to help you,’ he says, mustering conviction though his
voice is feeble, ‘trying to be honourable to a fellow of the industry—’

‘No, you weren’t. You were attacking a woman I care about.’

‘Oh, spare me!’ Finally Evan loses it, snapping like an elastic band. ‘You’re the one who came up with the bloody idea in the first place!’

The crowd gasps. My stomach lurches.

‘Admit it to her, Nick, go on,’ taunts Evan. ‘Admit that you preyed on her as a last-ditch attempt to salvage your career, you pathetic
bastard
.’

‘You misunderstand,’ says Nick evenly. ‘I’d explain it to you if I thought you were capable of grasping basic concepts of friendship and respect.’

‘Try us out, sonny Jim,’ Evan rasps. ‘We might just surprise you.’

Sonny Jim?

Nick takes my hand, but I’m too confused, I don’t know what to think. I pull away. I’m horribly aware of Nick and me up on the screen, my blotchy red face and quivering bottom lip, and I just really
really
don’t want to be here. I want to be by myself or with Lou or with Jaz or with Mum and Dad, somewhere quiet and private so I can think things through. I don’t want to be on TV. I never wanted to be on bloody TV.

‘Look,’ Nick begins, speaking slowly so I catch every word. His gaze is so intense that for a moment I believe we’re the only people in the room. ‘I started off with less than honourable intentions, OK? I admit it. Back then you were just a name to me, Maddie, part of a project I had to
work on. Not because I wanted to,’ an awkward laugh, ‘to be completely honest I hate these kind of shows, but because it was all I was offered. So I took it. And as part of the contract I was obliged to participate in the … “storylines” Evan had in mind – he had plenty, he promised, and did I have any suggestions?’