The Bex Factor (11 page)

No one seems to notice Twilight, sitting at the table by the window with only a tuna salad and a mineral water for company. So I make my way over.

‘Hi, Twilight. Anyone sitting there?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘Is it OK if I eat with you then?’

‘If you must. But don’t come anywhere near me with that garlic bread.’

‘What, because you’re a vampire?’ I say, giving her a little wink to indicate that I’m being funny.

‘No, because it stinks. Now hurry up and sit down. If that Magwicz woman sees us she’ll want to come over and smother me again. I get quite enough of that from the wicked
witch.’

‘Who’s the wicked witch?’

Twilight stabs a piece of tuna. ‘My mother, you idiot – the Beast of Benidorm.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ I say, swiftly despatching a mouthful of garlic bread. ‘I thought you said you loved her more than life itself.’

At least I’ve made Twilight smile for once. ‘The important thing isn’t telling the truth necessarily; it’s telling what
ought
to be the truth that
counts.’

‘Isn’t that a bit —?’

‘Not that there’s much competition,’ continues Twilight, joining in the applause for Soul Survivorz as a cameraman walks past. ‘Boybands are so last century.’

‘What about Elizabeth McQueen? She’s had more hits on YouTube than the dog on the skateboard.’

‘Oh, please,’ says Twilight. ‘That woman should do us all a favour and start wearing a paper bag over her head – and as for that lot . . .’ I get a tantalising
glimpse of her perfect white neck as she turns towards the salad cart where Yvette from The Holy Joannas has started to cry. ‘. . . Talk about who let the dogs out!’

‘What about the others?’ I say, trying to stop myself staring by concentrating on my rigatoni.

‘I suppose that brat, Smedley, is in with an outside chance. And then there’s you, of course.’

‘Really, you think I —?’

‘Oh, cut it out. No one buys your pathetic Mr Modesty act. You look relatively presentable, your guitar playing might just hide your deficiencies in the singing department and if you
weren’t as desperate as the rest of them, you wouldn’t be here anyway.’

It’s the first nice thing she’s said to me. I get this silly urge to explain that all I really want is to get to know her better. ‘Actually, Twilight I —’

‘Excuse me,’ says a soft, lilting voice. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

Elizabeth McQueen’s tray is piled high with both types of pasta and a selection of Danish pastries. I rack my brains for a polite way of getting rid of her. ‘Well, you see
—’

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ she says, ‘but it’s getting a wee bit noisy over there.’

‘Of course you must join us,’ says Twilight, with a welcoming smile. ‘I was just saying what a wonderful voice you have.’

‘You’re very kind.’

Twilight’s smile disappears when she sees Bart Smedley climb onto the long table and start tap-dancing. ‘Does he honestly think I’m going to let him get away with
that?’

‘Yes,’ I say, trying not to look too impressed by his back flip. ‘It’s not very hygienic, is it?’

‘Sorry, Elizabeth,’ says Twilight, jumping to her feet. ‘Got to go, I’m afraid. But I’m sure Matt here will help you find a paper bag.’

‘And what would I want that for?’

‘I thought you might like to take some of those delicious pastries up to your room for later,’ says Twilight with a smile.

‘Good idea,’ says Elizabeth, looking slightly relieved as Twilight glides across the restaurant towards the others. ‘What a lovely girl she is.’

‘Yes, isn’t she?’

Elizabeth tucks into her pasta. I try really hard not to stare at that thing on her face. But it’s pretty impossible to ignore, and even though I try and time it so she’s twirling
spaghetti, I’m sure she catches me taking a sneaky peak. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘That’s all right,’ she says. ‘I’ve had forty-five years to get used to it. Why don’t you have a good look now, and then we can talk about something more
interesting.’

It’s kind of like someone’s splashed pasta sauce all over her face. I study it for a couple more seconds than I actually want to, so she won’t think I’m immature or
anything, and then try to change the subject. ‘Are you enjoying it, Elizabeth? Doing the show, I mean?’

‘Of course,’ she says, doubtfully. ‘I’m having the best time of my life. But do you not find it a bit lonesome in here, Matt?’

I look across at the others. Bart Smedley seems to have fallen off the table and Twilight is helping him to his feet. ‘It is a bit lonely, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t even like the song they’ve given me. I told Nikki I’m really a folk singer, but she says that song from
Titanic
was practically written for me.’

‘I hate mine too,’ I say, secretly pleased that someone else feels the same way. ‘I actually wanted to do some of my own stuff.’

Elizabeth looks genuinely impressed. ‘You write your own songs then, Matt? I bet your mum’s right proud of you.’

‘Yes, kind of,’ I say, suddenly feeling guilty that I forgot to phone home this morning. ‘And I prefer Matthew, by the way. Matt’s just my . . . stage name.’

‘And I’m Lizzie,’ she says, wiping her fingers on the tablecloth and offering me her hand.

‘So what have they got lined up for you this afternoon, Lizzie?’

‘More interviews,’ she sighs. ‘I never know what to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if Archie was around.’

‘Who’s Archie, your husband?’

‘Archie’s my wee dog,’ she says, rummaging around in her handbag and pulling out a battered photograph of a battered mongrel. ‘Isn’t he bonny?’

I nod politely and reach for my Diet Coke.

‘I miss him so much,’ she says, mopping up the remains of her pasta sauce. ‘He’s kind, he’s loyal, he doesn’t care what you look like. But you know what he
does best?’

‘Fetches sticks or something?’

‘He’s a good listener. If I’ve got a problem I always go to Archie first.’ She kisses the photograph and returns it to her handbag. ‘Is there anyone like that in
your
life, Matthew?’

Bex

‘I think Crystal might be pregnant,’ says Emily, adding a smiley-faced moon to the side of her mum’s coffin. ‘She keeps throwing up.’

I’m too busy painting my pretend boyfriend to take much notice. ‘My sister puked 24/7 when she was carrying Yasmin.’

‘I’m going to feed her loads of watermelon,’ says Emily, ‘just to make sure.’

Shezza won’t stop talking about Matt. She wants him to sign loads of autographs so we can flog them to the Year Sevens, and she spent the whole of food tech asking dumb questions about my
new relationship. Is he a good kisser? (
What do you think?
) What’s his favourite aftershave? (
Emporio Armani.
) Where did you go on your first date? (
A walk in the park
followed by a movie.
) I love it that Shezza’s so jealous, but what if I get my stories mixed up and she finds out it’s all one big fat lie?

‘Come again, Emily, did you say “watermelon”?’

‘If she eats lots of watermelon, she’ll have a girl.’

He
could
be my boyfriend – couldn’t he? What’s so funny? We talk on the phone nearly every night. It’s not a lie exactly. More like work in progress or that thing
we were talking about in English – a poetic truth.

‘I don’t think watermelon has anything to do with it, Emily. That’s sounds like a – whatdoyoucallit – old wives’ tale, if you ask me.’

‘No it’s not. It’s a well-known fact.’

‘My sister had a girl, and she just stuffed herself with gummy bears.’

But Shezza’s not really into poetry. Maybe I should come clean before she works it out for herself. Or
maybe
– you’re going to love this, this is genius – maybe I
should just find out everything there is to know about Matthew. Like a sort of GCSE in Matthew Layton studies. He’s already told me his top twenty albums and his favourite bands. All I need
is to find out some personal stuff, and Shezza will never suspect a thing.

‘We’re going to adopt next time, anyway,’ says Emily. ‘It’s so much quicker.’

And I just thought of the perfect teacher. Mums know everything about their sons. Even the things they don’t want them to know – just ask Kyle. All I have to do is get Mrs Layton to
spill the beans about him. Last week she was so moody I wouldn’t even have bothered, but Matthew was right, she has been loads better since she stopped taking those steroid things. Yesterday
she told me to call her Sue, and right now she’s actually in the kitchen stuffing aubergines. If I could just get her out of the house for a bit, I reckon she’d tell me everything.

‘Adoption’s a lot less hassle too,’ says Emily. ‘I hate all that maternity wear.’

‘Hang on a minute. Who is this girl, because if she’s at your school, she needs to talk to someone? Does her mum know?’

‘She hasn’t got a mum,’ giggles Emily.

‘It’s not funny, you know. My sister Natalie was nearly seventeen when she had Yasmin, but she was terrified. How old is Crystal?’

‘Really old,’ says Emily, laughing herself stupid. ‘About six weeks or something.’

‘Eh?’

‘Crystal’s my favourite Sim, silly.’

I manage to force a laugh. If I want to be Matthew’s pretend girlfriend it won’t look good if I start slapping his kid sister. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’

‘OK, you two, what’s so funny?’ Mrs Layton is wearing a pink apron with
Kiss The Cook
on the front. ‘Come on, Emily. Share the joke, please.’

‘Bex thought Crystal was a girl from school,’ says Emily.

‘I should hope not,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘She’s got six children already. I think Mrs Jenkins would have noticed something by now.’ She moves closer to get a better
look at her coffin. ‘Quite the artist, aren’t you, Bex? You’ve got Matthew’s mouth perfectly.’

‘What’s his favourite colour, Sue?

‘Oh I don’t know, blue, I think.’

‘And what was his favourite toy when he was little?’

‘What’s with all the questions?’ says Mrs Layton, taking Emily’s paintbrush and doodling a smiley face. ‘Wait a minute. There was that little plastic truck thing
with bricks in the back. I’ve got a photo somewhere. I’ll dig it out after supper.’

Something tells me this could be the best chance I get. ‘Tell you what, Sue, how about, after you’ve shown me that photo, we go out for a little walk, yeah? I could push you round
the park if you like. What do think?’

Her smile deserts her almost as quickly as Jez deserted Natalie when she told him she was pregnant. ‘I think you’ve got a bloody nerve. I’ve already made it perfectly clear
that I’m not interested.’

‘But I didn’t think —’

‘That’s your trouble, isn’t it, Bex? You don’t think, do you? If you saw that metal monstrosity in the garage, you’d keep your ridiculous ideas to
yourself.’

‘Mum doesn’t like her wheelchair,’ explains Emily, obviously thinking that someone who can’t tell the difference between real life and a computer game is too dumb to work
it out for herself.

‘I loathe it,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Melvin ran a mile the first time the hospital sent me home in one. He could just about cope with the crutches, but that ugly thing was the
final nail in my coffin.’

A lightbulb flashes in the cartoon bubble above my head. I want to tell her about it straightaway, but just for the moment, I decide to keep my latest genius idea to myself. ‘Sorry, I
thought the park would be nice.’

‘Yes, well, in a couple of weeks, when I get my strength back after this wretched flare-up, I might just be able to stagger round under my own steam,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Supper
will be ready in five minutes. Come out when you’ve cleared up the mess.’

Before we put the paints away, I take the chance to change the colour of Matthew’s hoodie. If I’m going to get that A star in Matthew Layton studies, I need to get the details
right.

‘Bex?’ says Emily, thoughtfully. ‘Kyle told me you live on the Dogshit Estate.’

‘Don’t call it that. It’s the Dogberry Estate, OK?’

‘You don’t though, do you?’

‘Yeah, ’course. Why shouldn’t I?’

Emily shakes her head and stares into her jam jar of dirty water. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Why not.’

‘Because you’re nice,’ she whispers.

And that’s when I realise what a dumb idea it is. Shezza might not be the brightest gummy bear in the Haribo Special Mix, but it’s going to take more than a few random facts about
Matthew to convince her that a girl like me is really going out with someone off the telly.

There’s only one thing for it. I’ve got tell him. You never know, he might even like the idea. OK, that is
so
not going to happen, but he owes me big time. Maybe I can
convince him to play along for a bit.