Star Struck (21 page)

‘Her?’ he said, throwing his hand in Catherine’s direction as if swatting flies. ‘What does she do anyway? Bugger all, from what I can see, except for swanning off to some talent competition and not giving a stuff about me.’

Jo looked over at Catherine, who was standing openmouthed, her eyes watery.

‘She looks after you, you selfish sod. She’s your carer,’ Claire said.

‘I haven’t got a bloody carer.’

‘What is she then, Dad?’ Jo demanded. ‘She does everything for you. What’s that if it’s not a carer?’

‘A mug?’ Catherine said quietly.

Jo, Claire and Maria turned and stared at their sister.

‘What?’ Mick asked. Jo couldn’t believe that Catherine
had
said it; good for her. Though, she thought, her dad really did treat her like one sometimes.

‘How can you say that?’ Mick asked, turning around and slamming the cereal packet on the counter.

‘How can I not after what you’ve just said?’

‘I’ll tell you who’s a mug, shall I? Me, for trusting you,’ Mick spat at Catherine.

Jo thought that her dad’s anger was far more acute than the situation warranted. ‘All right, you,’ Jo shouted, ‘chill your beans. We all know now so that’s it. You can cry all you want, Dad, but we know. So what now?’

‘Nothing now.’

‘Wrong answer,’ Claire said, walking over to her father. ‘What sort of cancer is it, Dad? Where is it being treated, what have the doctors told you? And is there anything else we should know?’

Jo could tell that Claire was trying to be calm and caring with Mick, but he really would try the patience of a saint.

Mick put his hand to his stomach. ‘It’s stomach cancer.’

‘And where are you being treated?’ Claire’s voice softened.

Mick thought for a moment. ‘Withington.’

‘Withington Hospital?’

‘No,’ he corrected. ‘Christie’s. Christie’s Cancer Hospital in Withington.’

‘And what have the doctors said?’ Maria asked quietly.

Jo couldn’t remember a time when she had seen her sister look so concerned.

‘They talk in riddles that lot. I don’t know if I’m coming or going with them.’

‘When’s your next appointment?’

Mick turned his back on his daughters and buried his head in his hands. ‘Next week. A week on Monday,’ he said.

Catherine looked at Jo. ‘That’s when I’m away.’

‘We know,’ Jo replied, ‘we’ll go with him.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Mick said defiantly.

Maria walked over to her dad and, taking his hand guided him to a seat, placed a cup of tea in front of him and poured milk on his Rice Krispies. ‘Yes, we will, Dad. We’ll all be there for you.’

Mick gazed around at his daughters, a look of genuine wonderment on his face. ‘But you’ve got work and stuff. You don’t want to be bothering with me.’

‘Yes, we do,’ Claire said defiantly.

‘Course we do,’ Maria said.

‘Despite what you might think, you daft old goat, we do love you,’ Catherine said.

‘Yeah, Dad, we’ll come with you,’ Jo offered. ‘I’ll even be nice to you.’

‘Good girl,’ Mick said with a wink, suddenly perking up. ‘Pop us some toast in then, will you love and stick the radio on. United have got an early kick off.’

Jo looked at Catherine and raised an eyebrow.
Was he serious?
She walked over and grabbed some Milk Roll and shoved it in the toaster, wondering if it was her that was mean-spirited or whether her dad was just a born piss-taker, whatever life threw at him.

Catherine returned to her room and flopped on her bed. She was so mad with her dad, but so guilty at the same time at having to leave him, that her head felt as if it was filled with static and she couldn’t think straight. Jo was
right;
he was selfish. He didn’t care about her, all he really cared about was himself, which had been perfectly demonstrated by the way he had reacted when he had been confronted by his daughters – indignation followed by what Catherine could only describe as delight at the fact that his other daughters now seemed willing to pander to his needs. What an awful thing to think about her own father, Catherine thought, as she pulled out her suitcase again and began to pack for London. But it was true. He was sitting downstairs now being treated like the Maharajah because he had cancer and he actually seemed to be revelling in it.

Catherine tried to put herself in his place. He was probably frightened and felt all alone and thought no one else would want to know, she reasoned. Now that her sisters knew, he was just glad that it was out in the open. But the way he was behaving downstairs seemed more self-centred than that. He was just pleased to be the centre of attention for a change. Something that he had been striving towards for years, but had never actually achieved.

Catherine gathered up all of the clothes that Jo had helped her choose, which she had washed and ironed as soon as she returned from Boot Camp, and folded them neatly in her case. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had lost weight over the past few weeks, the excitement and the stress of the auditions, then the run up to Boot Camp, had made Catherine lose her appetite, something she never thought could happen to her. She’d always marvelled at those girls who said things like, ‘I forgot to eat lunch.’ How did someone forget to eat lunch? But now
she
kind of understood. Her stomach didn’t seem to want to ask her brain for food. It seemed to have disconnected itself from its hunger sensors and hooked itself up with the panic and adrenalin sensors. Instead of being hungry it just churned with worry about her dad, about the next stage in the competition, about how she would come across on TV.

Catherine’s phone began to ring. It was Andy. She had been wondering if he was going to call and had been coming up with excuses over the past twenty-four hours as to why he might not. He was busy, he had other things to do, he’d probably decided against it as soon as he’d left Boot Camp.

‘Hello?’ she said in a voice that suggested she didn’t know who was calling. Why do that, she wondered? She’d taken his number, she knew it was him, but here she was acting all casual as if there were so many Andys in her phone book she didn’t know which one was ringing at any given time.

‘Catherine? It’s Andy.’

‘Oh, hi Andy.’ You know it’s him!

‘I didn’t know if my number came up, it sometimes comes up as private number …’

Now poor Andy was having to enter into her pretence with her. Catherine wanted to kick herself. She really needed Jo to script her when it came to talking to men; she seemed incapable of doing it properly on her own.

‘No, er, yes it didn’t … I mean, no. Er …’ Catherine laughed nervously, what was she on about?

Thankfully, Andy laughed too. ‘Shall we start again?’ he asked kindly.

‘Go on then,’ Catherine said gratefully.

‘Hi, Catherine, it’s Andy.’

‘Hi, Andy.’

‘How are you?’

‘Good. And you?’

‘Great. I’m just ringing about that drink.’ Andy sounded as nervous as Catherine felt.

‘Oh right, yes the drink. Well, it’ll have to be after I get back from London now,’ she said and then corrected herself. ‘Sorry, what I meant is, I’d love to, but obviously I’ve got to go to London.’

‘It might not have to wait until you get back from there … because I’m coming too!’

‘No way!’ Catherine shrieked and then realised that her enthusiasm might scare Andy off. ‘I mean,’ she coughed, mocking herself, speaking again but this time in a low calm voice, ‘No way.’

‘Yep. They’ve drafted me in. Jason P. Longford likes me, apparently. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

Catherine laughed. ‘A bit of both, I think.’

‘So, I get to see you go through to the finals and then obviously win the whole show.’

Catherine smiled. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think Star is the natural-born winner of
Star Maker
this year, unless there’s some American talent that’s better at singing and even more assured of their own greatness.’

‘Whatever. But we can go along for the ride though, can’t we?’

Catherine felt giddy, as if he was inviting her to be part of his exclusive gang, her and him against the world. ‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘we can.’

Chapter 9

CATHERINE HAD NEVER
been to London. She knew that that probably made her sound like a hick, but she hadn’t. There hadn’t ever really been a time when the opportunity had arisen. Once her dad had decided that he had to go to see an exhibition by the artist Velázquez, but a week before they were due to go Mick had read an article about the artist in the
Mail on Sunday
and told Catherine that they weren’t ‘going all the way to London to see some doodles by a piss-taking Spaniard.’ And that had been the end of that.

Catherine hadn’t known what to expect on her first visit to the capital, but she knew that this trip, courtesy of
Star Maker
, would be far more exciting than it would have been had she accompanied her father. She and Kim, who had travelled on the train together, were met at the station by a chauffeur-driven car and were whisked through the streets of London. Catherine and Kim excitedly chattered as they looked out of the window at Green Park. ‘Look, the Ritz!’ Kim shouted as the car slowed. ‘Are we staying here?’ she asked.

‘No, where you’re staying is far better that that,’ the chauffeur said with a smile. A few minutes later he pulled the car around the corner and came to a stop at some electronic gates.

‘Oh my God, you can not be serious!’ Kim squealed. Ahead of them was a huge white Edwardian villa.

‘It’s like a palace,’ Catherine whispered, totally overawed. ‘Is this where we’re staying?’ She really couldn’t believe it. The Cotswolds place had been nice but in London, for some reason, she thought they might get put up in a Travel Lodge somewhere on the outskirts and be shipped in to the centre for filming.

‘Here you are, girls,’ the chauffeur turned round and announced with a smile, ‘Chez Forster.’

‘This is amazing!’ Catherine looked out at the manicured front lawn and the ivy that was creeping around the huge front door.

‘Fifteen bedrooms in there. Looks smaller from here, doesn’t it?’ the chauffeur commented.

‘No, it looks massive!’ Kim squealed.

‘You’re a bit more impressed than the last girl I dropped off. She just stuck her nose in the air and said it was like her mum’s gaff.’

Catherine and Kim looked at one another. ‘Star,’ they said simultaneously.

They were taken through into the first reception room of the house and were allocated their room on the third floor. It was all very glamorous to begin with, as they inspected the huge bathroom and jumped around on their beds with their Egyptian cotton sheets. But as they were taken through into their audition groups and put through their paces it became apparent that they weren’t going to have any time to enjoy their luxury surroundings.

Catherine, Kim and Star were kept in one room all day. They were informed that the six girls from America that they would be competing against were here, but that
they
wouldn’t meet them until the following day because it was felt that they might be a distraction. They were then each given a song to sing, with no opportunity to change if they didn’t think it suited their voice. Catherine had been allocated ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding. At first she had panicked, but as she practised it over and over she realised that it really suited her voice. She wanted to sing her own songs but knew that for the moment she should just sing what she was asked to sing.

Star had complained about her song choice, only to be told by the vocal coach that she had better get used to being allocated songs if she was to get through to the finals, as all of the songs had already been chosen. During Boot Camp they had been allowed to choose their own songs, but now – as the competition hotted up – the contestants’ performances were dictated by the judges. Catherine had thought this was odd – how could they know what would suit different singers’ voices? But she was so busy that the thought soon left her head and she resumed singing.

As they fell into bed at the end of a long day, Kim looked over at Catherine and said, ‘Looks a lot more glamorous on the telly, doesn’t it?’

Catherine didn’t want to badmouth the show. She’d had a great day and it was glamorous to her, but she hated to disagree with people. ‘I suppose it can’t be glamour twenty-four seven, can it? Anyway, we’re not here to have a glamorous time, we’re here so that they can make the show and make it look like we’re having a glamorous time.’

‘True,’ Kim lapsed into thought.

‘And we get to climb into the best bed ever at night and open the curtains and look out at a Mayfair garden in the morning.’

‘I suppose,’ Kim said. ‘But
Star Maker
is just a machine at the end of the day.’

‘Oh God, you sound like my dad.’

‘Is that a bad thing, then?’

‘He’s just partial to a conspiracy theory or two, likes to think that this is a machine that’s sole purpose is to chew up people with a dream to sing and spit them out the other end.’

‘Cheery then, your dad?’

Catherine caught the lump in her throat. ‘He’s just a bit gloomy. The glass isn’t even half empty. It’s just empty.’

There was silence in the room as Catherine tried not to get upset about her dad, but soon tears began to roll down her cheeks.

‘Are you OK? You sound like you’re crying,’ Kim said gently.

Catherine propped herself up in the bed and wondered momentarily if she should keep what was happening at home to herself. Then she saw Kim looking kindly at her and knew that she could trust her new friend with anything. The two girls sat talking until the early hours of the morning and Catherine told her everything about her dad, about her family, about her concerns about being in this competition. Kim listened and reassured Catherine that what she was doing was absolutely the right thing. And as Catherine drifted off to sleep she was struck by the thought that being behind the scenes of
Star Maker
might
not being as glitzy as she may have imagined, but she was sure that she’d made a great friend in Kim.