Star Crazy Me (7 page)

We started off with scales again, and then she said she wanted me to sing
Auld Lang Syne
“Very slowly and gently, as if it's a love song. Hold on to those notes… don't rush them. Slo-o-o-w, slo-o-ow… long, deep breaths… this is where your exercises will pay off.”

Well! I could hold the notes, no problem, so I still didn't really see why I had to do her boring exercises, not that I dared say so. She had this habit, if she thought you were being stupid, of making her lips go all tight and thin, and sort of
shrivelling
you with her beady eyes. But I reckon she must have guessed what I was thinking cos very sharply she said, “You won't be young for ever, you know! If you really wish to make a career as a singer you need to lay the foundations
now
, before your muscles get set in their ways. Unless, of course, you're planning to retire by the time you reach thirty?”

I felt like retorting that by the time I reached thirty I'd be so old I'd be past it anyway, but I knew that would be silly, and in any case Mrs P wasn't the sort of person you talked back to. I didn't want her to shrivel me. I wanted her to… well! Be impressed. It somehow seemed important.

We worked for about an hour, and then she said that was enough for one day. “Now we'll sit down and have a little chat.”

I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. What did we have to chat about? I perched myself gingerly on the edge of the sofa and waited for her to say something. I wasn't going to say anything! It was up to her, not me.

“All right.” She leaned forward. “Tell me why you aren't going in for this talent contest. What is it called? Top Pop?”

I said, “Top Spot.”

“Top Spot! Why aren't you putting yourself in for it?”

I wriggled, uncomfortably. Of all the things I didn't want to talk about, this was the one I most didn't want to.

“How do your parents feel? Have you discussed it with them?”

Slowly, I shook my head.

“Why not? Aren't they interested?”

I said, “Not specially. My nan used to be.” And then, before I knew it, I was telling her all about Nan and her great ambitions for me, and all about Mum, who just
wished I would lose weight and not bring shame upon her, and all about the dad I'd never known, on account of Mum not actually being a hundred per cent sure who he was.

“She went to Spain,” I said, “and got drunk and can't remember. It could have been a Spanish boy.” I like to think of myself being half Spanish. I do have dark hair and brown eyes, whereas Mum is quite blonde, so maybe it could be true and not just a romantic fantasy. “It's why she called me Carmen,” I added.

“Well, Carmen is a good name. Excellent for a singer! Imagine if you were called Daphne Bloggs – or Lily Banks, if it comes to that.”

Now she was being kind, and trying to cheer me up. I'd probably got a bit self-pitying talking about Nan and Mum and my non-existent dad. I agreed that Carmen wasn't a bad sort of name, as names go. Nowhere near as lovely as Topaze, of course, though I don't suppose she was actually
christened
Topaze. On the other hand, she might have been.

Mrs P said, “Your first name's Carmen, but what is your surname?”

When I said “Bell”, she clapped her hands.

“Carmen Bell! Wonderful! You see, you have an advantage over some people straight away. All right, then, Carmen Bell! Why are you not entering yourself in this talent contest?”

I might have known she wouldn't give up. I humped a shoulder and muttered, “I dunno.”

“What do you mean, you don't know? With a voice like yours? That is totally absurd! I can't imagine you'd have much in the way of competition. Tell me at once what the problem is. Speak up! Don't be bashful.”

I said, “I'm not bashful.”

“So what is the problem?”

“Haven't got a problem.”

“
Carmen Bell
.” She sat up, very stiff and straight. “Tell me the truth!”

I couldn't look at her. I had to whisper it to the carpet. “I'm too fat.”

“
What?
” She leaned forward. “You're too
what
?”

I said, “Fat!”

“Too fat? Who gave you that idea? Not your mother, I hope!”

I shook my head.

“Then who?”

“Girls at school.”

“
Thin
girls, I make no doubt. Do they have good voices?”

“Not specially.” Marigold has a voice like a police siren. Ashlee can't even sing in tune.

“So what does it matter what they say? Surely it's the voice which counts? That plus the personality – of which, I may say, you have more than your fair share!”

I frowned. She didn't know what it was like to be sneered at and made fun of.

“Come here a moment.” She stood up, and beckoned me across the room. “This is a photograph of me, at the start of my career. I wasn't exactly what you would call pretty, was I?”

I hesitated. What did she want me to say?

“Oh, come along, Carmen Bell! Be honest! I was a very
plain
young girl. Very plain. And even worse as a middle-aged woman.” She moved across to another photo. “Age does not generally improve a person's looks. Alas! I always so longed to be beautiful. Or even just moderately attractive. I remember at school one year – I must have been fifteen, sixteen – they were auditioning for the end of term show. Something by Gilbert and Sullivan. I overheard two of the girls in my year discussing who was likely to get the lead. They said, ‘Lily's the best singer, but she is such a
fright
.' And then they giggled – you know how girls giggle – and one of them said, ‘She'd be all right for a horror film!' I was so mortified, I almost didn't audition. But then I thought,
I'm not going to let two silly girls get the better of
me!
So I went ahead, and I got the part, and I never looked back. I'm not saying it's easy, but you have to have faith in yourself.”

She broke off, to study me. “You're not convinced!
What makes you think that plain Lily Banks might have been able to do it, but not Carmen Bell?”

“You sang in opera!” It burst out of me before I could stop it. “Opera's different. Nobody cares what people in opera look like!”

“Oh, my dear, that is where you are so wrong. People always care what you look like.
Always
. Maybe they shouldn't – but they do. You have to learn to make the best of yourself. Dress well, move well, speak well… me, I knew I could never be beautiful, but at least I could be smart.” She waved a hand at the photograph. “After a bit, people stopped thinking how plain I was and thought how elegant I was. Now, you—” She cupped my chin in her hand, forcing me to look up at her. “You have so much! You have a face I would have died for. Skin I would have died for.
Hair
I would have died for! I always had to wear a hair piece. I would have looked at you with such envy! And on top of all this, you have a voice which is pure gold. Don't, I beg you, let any stupid girls prevent you from using it!”

I don't know why it is, but I get the prickles all over when people pay me compliments. I just can't take it! Anyone says anything nice to me and I go into some kind of mad, squirming overdrive. Sternly, I turned to the photograph she'd been pointing to.

“That thing round your neck,” I said. “Is it
fur
?”

“I'm afraid it is.” She gave a little laugh. Sort of apologetic, but not terribly. “We weren't very enlightened in those days.”

“Go out in it now,” I said, “you'd probably get paint chucked over you.”

“Is that what you would like to do? Chuck paint over it? Well, it's still in my wardrobe, I can fetch it for you, if you like. I don't have any paint, but I have some red nail polish, if that would do.”

I scowled, and moved away. “'S all right.' S not gonna save the animal, is it?”

Gravely she said, “No – but it's not too late to save
you
. Please! Don't give up so easily. Don't let those foolish girls get the better of you.”

Nag, nag, nag! Why couldn't she just mind her own business?

“Don't you feel the urge to get up there and show them? Have you no fighting spirit? I'm sure, if your nan were here, she'd back me up.”

Angrily, I said, “My nan wouldn't ever try to make me do something I didn't want to do! She was on
my
side.”

“And so am I, my dear, believe it or not.”

“Well, don't be!” I yelled. “I don't want you on my side! Just leave me alone!”

I felt bad afterwards. But she shouldn't have brought Nan into it! She had no right. Nan always loved me and stuck up for me. She'd have given Mrs P a right ear bashing. I could just hear her.
You let that girl
be! She'll make her own mind up what she wants to do. She
doesn't need the likes of you shoving your oar in
.

Oh, I did miss Nan! I missed her
so much
. More and more as the weeks went by. I didn't have anyone now; I'd even managed to upset both of my two best friends.
All I had left was this horrible old woman, who nagged me.

That night when I went to bed I called Indy. If she'd answered the phone, I would have apologised to her. I would have made things right between us! But nobody came; there wasn't even any message service. Just the ringing of the phone in the empty flat. It seemed like even Indy had gone away for half term. Either that, or she was out for the day. I knew she had an auntie who lived near London, and cousins she used to play with. I pictured her there with them, laughing and happy and not ever once thinking of me, cos why should she? I'd yelled at her. Told her I wouldn't ever speak to her again.

I just felt so
alone
.

I didn't go out at all either on Monday or on Tuesday, just stayed in and moped. I couldn't settle to anything. I tried a bit of telly, but it was all so rubbish I had to switch it off. Then I tried a bit of reading, a book we'd been doing in class. I thought maybe I should catch up on what I'd missed, but then I thought what was the
point? The book was dead boring anyway. Everything was boring. I couldn't even listen to my music – she'd even gone and ruined that for me. It didn't matter how high I turned the volume up, I still kept hearing her tinny old voice nagging at me. I began to wish I'd never met her. I wanted Josh! I wanted Indy! I wanted everything to be
normal
.

If things had been normal, I'd probably have been meeting Indy in the shopping centre. We'd have wandered round, looking at stuff, pointing out any boys we happened to fancy, having a bit of a giggle. Or maybe I'd have caught the bus and gone round her place and we'd have listened to CDs and played with her little brother. Nothing special. We never really did anything special; we didn't need to. We were just happy being together.

I kept wondering whether Indy was home yet, and if so what she was doing. I tortured myself, imagining her wandering round the shopping centre with Connie instead of me. Imagining
Connie
going back to her place,
playing with Darren. I loved that little boy! He'd once told me I was his favourite girl friend. I couldn't bear the thought of Connie taking my place.

I knew I ought to try ringing again. It was up to me to make the first move, not Indy. I actually picked up the phone, several times, and started punching out numbers. But when it came to the point, I got, like, paralysed and couldn't go through with it. Truth to tell, I was scared. Me and Indy had never quarrelled before, and I didn't know how to handle the situation. Suppose I rang and she said, “I don't want to talk to you any more,” and slammed the phone down? Even just the thought of it shrivelled me.

When Mum arrived home on Tuesday she was considerably annoyed that I hadn't done anything. Hadn't washed up, hadn't got dinner, hadn't even bothered getting dressed.

“For goodness sake, Carmen! What have you been up to all day? Go and put some clothes on. You look like a slattern!”

Whatever that may be. I slouched off angrily into my bedroom and yanked on a sack-like T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. Mum pursed her lips, but didn't actually say anything. Just as well, or I might have exploded. I'd been nagged quite enough by Mrs P, I didn't need Mum having a go at me as well.

Next morning she came into my room – where I was still attempting to
sleep
– and said, “I don't know why you were in such a bad temper last night, but I don't want to come home to the same thing this evening. What are you doing all day? What have you got planned?”

I mumbled that I didn't have anything planned. Mum said, “Why don't you go and visit someone?”

Like who
?

“There must be somebody,” said Mum. “What's happened to all your friends?”

I snapped, “Nothing's happened to them! They've gone on holiday. People do,” I said. “
Normal
people.”

“Don't you get on my case,” said Mum. “What's put
you in such a foul mood? Maybe you'd better come to the salon and I'll see if I can fit you in for a facial.”

That got me shooting up the bed. “It's all right,” I said. “I'm going out.”

I hated visiting Mum at the salon. Everyone there was stick thin and gorgeous, and I always felt that before I arrived Mum was probably apologising in advance for having a daughter that couldn't squeeze into a size six. I knew she was secretly ashamed of me.

“I've just remembered… I've got things to do.”

“What things?” said Mum.

“I dunno! Just things. Like…
things
.”

“Well, make sure you have your phone with you. I like to know that I can reach you.”

I
could
have taken a chance and gone to Indy's. Or I could have been brave and called first, to make sure she was there and that she was still talking to me. But I didn't do either. Instead, I caught the number twenty bus and went to Sheepscombe. If I'd taken my guitar I could have pretended I was going there to sing, but I left the guitar
where it was, in my bedroom. I knew I wasn't going to sing – well, not to my adoring public. (OK, I'm only joking! Though one old man did actually call out to me as I walked across the square: “No songs today?”)

I'm not sure what I'd have done if Mrs P had been out. She was way the most provoking old person I'd ever met, but at least when I was with her I felt alive and tingling with energy. After two days just mooching about at home, I felt like some kind of slug.

I was relieved when she opened the door but a bit embarrassed, as well, considering how I'd flounced out on Sunday. It never really occurred to me, though, that she might not want to see me any more. I find that odd, as I don't think I'd have wanted to see me; I had been kind of unpleasant. I think I might have shut the door in my face. Mrs P just very calmly nodded and said, “So there you are. The prima donna returns. I wondered if you'd have the pluck.”

I started stammering out excuses, but she waved a hand, a bit impatiently, and said, “Never mind all that!
Come in, come in, don't just stand there. I presume you've come to do some work?”

She kept me at it all morning, and I really enjoyed it. We did scales and exercises and she said I had a very good range. I glowed at that! Fortunately she didn't ask me if I'd done my breathing exercises. I wouldn't have liked to lie to her, but I'm not sure I'd have been bold enough to admit that I hadn't. I just hated it when she gave me one of those beady-eyed looks of hers, like I was totally beneath contempt and not worth bothering with.

At the end of two hours she said that that was probably enough. “We should have some lunch now, and then I must send you on your way.”

I said, “It's all right, I don't have to be back till tea time.” I could have gone on all afternoon! “We can do some more exercises, if you like, I'm not in the least bit tired.”

She said, “No, my dear, I'm sure you're not. But I'm an old lady, and old ladies need their rest.”

I hadn't thought about that. Of course I knew she
was
an old lady, far older even than Nan had been, but when she was at the piano, barking out her orders – “Gently, gently! You're not selling potatoes!” – I tended to forget how ancient she was.

“Can I come again tomorrow?” I said.

“On one condition.” She did the beady-eyed thing, but not like I was beneath contempt, more like she was about to issue some kind of challenge. “You must sing a song for me. Not” – she held up a hand – “not just any old song. The song you would sing if you were going in for the contest.”

She was doing it again!
Nagging
at me.

“I'm sure you must have thought about it. You must have a favourite song.”

I could feel my face scrunching itself up into a scowl.

“Oh, now, come along, come along!” she said. “I'm no threat, I'm just an old woman. What would you sing?”

Sullenly, I muttered, “Something I wrote with a friend.”

“Splendid! Then please, tomorrow, come prepared to sing it for me.”

“You wouldn't like it,” I said. “It's not your sort of music.”

Her pencilled eyebrows rose in a sort of cool disdain, like I'd said something really stupid. “Music is music,” she said. “There are only two sorts – good music and bad music. If you think your song is bad music, then fair enough. Don't sing it! Do you think it's bad music?”

I wriggled, uncomfortably. “It's rock.”

“Yes?” She stood, waiting.

“It's sort of… loud.”

“So I would suppose. In my experience, rock usually is.”

“But you've just been telling me to sing
quietly
!”

“My dear, that was an exercise! What I'm asking for is a performance. Are you going to sing it for me, or not?”

I shrugged. “Could. I s'pose.”

“I shall expect it. Tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock. Please be punctual.
And don't forget those
breathing exercises!
”

I spent all that evening in my room, practising
Star
Crazy Me
. Mum banged on the door at one point and told me to “Stop making so much noise, for goodness sake!” but I just stuffed pillows at the bottom of the door and carried on. If I was going to sing for Mrs P, then it had to be as good as I could possibly make it. I don't know whether the pillows actually did anything to muffle the sound, but Mum didn't come yelling at me again. Maybe she just shut the sitting-room door and turned the telly up.

Next morning, after Mum had gone to work, I did my breathing exercises. I had this feeling Mrs P had known, yesterday, that I hadn't been doing them. Maybe not actually
known
, but she'd definitely suspected. I didn't want her asking me and me having to lie. Somehow, telling Mrs P I'd done her exercises
when I hadn't seemed even worse than the really
whopping
great lie I'd told Mum about being in school when I'd spent the day wandering round the shopping centre. Not that I would expect Mum to agree with me; she would certainly go ballistic if she ever found out. But I could cope with Mum's rage. What I couldn't face was the thought of Mrs P's contempt. It just shrivelled me!

She'd said to go round at eleven o'clock. I was so anxious not to be late that I arrived half an hour early and had to kill time looking at clothes in Marks & Spencer. I knew if she'd said eleven, she meant eleven, and not quarter to or quarter past. She was that sort of person. I'd brought my guitar with me so I suppose I could have done a bit of singing, but I wanted to preserve my voice for later. I'd never have thought of such a thing before. Preserving my voice! That was Mrs P's influence, that was.

I rang her doorbell at
exactly
eleven o'clock. She seemed pleased. She said, “Good girl! On the dot. And
I see you've come prepared.” She nodded at my guitar. “Excellent!”

We had such a good morning. We did the usual scales and exercises, and she got me singing a few songs, such as
Amazing Grace
, for breath control and vowel sounds, and said she was “very happy” with the way things were going.

“It's a pleasure working with you! Now, let us break for a bite of lunch, then you shall sing me your song.”

And that was where it all started to go pear-shaped. Not the actual song. I gave it all I'd got…

I did all five verses. I was really flying! I knew, whatever she said, it wasn't her kind of music, but I was up there, on stage, in the spotlight, with everybody
going wild. I almost half expected, at the end, to hear applause. Thunderous applause! What I didn't expect was silence.

Defensively I said, “I told you you wouldn't like it.”

“Oh, my dear, quite the contrary,” she said. “I am impressed! I asked for a performance, you gave me a performance. To sing like that, for an audience of just one old woman, is no mean achievement. And didn't it make you feel good? Didn't it make you just long to get up and sing in front of a
real
audience?”

She was doing it again! She was going to start nagging.

“Well?” She gave me the beady eye. “
Didn't
it?”

Why did she always,
always
have to go and ruin everything? It had been so lovely up until then! Resentfully I said, “I've sung in front of a real audience. You've heard me sing in front of a real audience!”

“Oh!” She waved a hand. “The denizens!”

I wasn't sure what denizens were, exactly, but if she meant the old people, then I thought it was extremely
rude and ageist of her. I mean, what did she think
she
was?

“It's still singing,” I said.

“Oh, to be sure! Show tunes for the grannies! All very sweet, and you sang them very well, but it's not where your heart is, is it? Follow your dreams, my dear!
Go for it
, I believe, is the modern expression. Be brave! Confound the lot of them! Sing your song and prove what you can do.”

How many times did I have to tell her?
I was not
going in for that talent contest
.

“Well?” She barked it at me. “Cat got your tongue?”

I stood there, tugging at a bit of broken fingernail, and all the time feeling her beady gaze fixed on me.

“I can see we are not going to get anywhere. That being the case” – she moved across to the piano and began briskly stacking sheets of music – “it is obviously time to take action. Broaden your horizons. Tomorrow I am going to the opera. I had intended
going with a friend, but she has had to back out. That means I have a spare ticket. I think perhaps you had better come with me.”