The Bex Factor (12 page)

Matthew

Our jailor, Mrs Magwicz, escorts Bart Smedley, Twilight and me to the ninth floor at the end of the day, reminds us that our taxi for the breakfast television interview leaves
at five-thirty in the morning, wishes us ‘sweet dreams’ and hurries down to the bar.

‘Good night, Matt,’ smirks Bart, finding it a struggle to open his door with one arm in plaster. ‘Loved your work on “Who Let The Dogs Out”. Don’t think
I’ve ever met someone with
four
left feet before!’

I resist the temptation to tell him that I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone I wanted to burn at the stake before, because I want a private word with Twilight.

‘Sorry, Twilight. Have you got a second?’

She’s still glistening with sweat after the dance practice. ‘All right, but make it snappy. I need a shower.’

‘It’s about the show. I don’t think I can do it any more.’

Twilight slips out her rehearsal fangs and smiles. ‘I see.’

‘I hate the song they’ve given me. I’m going to look a complete jerk.’

‘Yes,’ she says, sympathetically. ‘I heard your run-through this afternoon.’

‘I’m not really into all this commercial stuff. My songs are kind of a fusion of nineties Britpop with a twenty-first century dance feel.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Twilight, yawning.

‘It just feels all wrong to be doing music I don’t believe in.’

‘A man of integrity,’ says Twilight, stretching out a long black fingernail and lightly brushing my shoulder. ‘I like that.’

‘Do you think I should tell Nikki?’

Twilight licks her lips. I can’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss them. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If you really feel that strongly about it, I think you
should.’

‘That’s what Bex said.’

‘And who’s Bex?’ says Twilight. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a girlfriend hidden away somewhere.’

‘She’s no one . . . just a kid from school.’ I can’t help hoping Twilight’s a tiny bit jealous. ‘Do you really think I should quit the show?’

‘I’ll miss you, of course,’ says Twilight, ‘but you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t follow your heart.’

‘Maybe Nikki will let me do a different song.’

‘Yes, maybe,’ says Twilight, doubtfully, ‘but she didn’t take much notice when The Holy Joannas complained about their change of image.’

‘I’ll sleep on it,’ I say, backing into my room, trying not to show how excited I am by the news that she’ll miss me. ‘Maybe I’ll feel better in the
morning.’

‘Do it now,’ she says, digging her fingernails into my wrist. ‘You’ll sleep better if you get it off your chest.’

‘Perhaps I’ll just —’

‘Good luck,’ she says, pushing the button for the lift. ‘And don’t let Nikki bully you into anything.’

I hover outside the penthouse suite, remembering how Nikki dealt with Soul Survivorz when they wanted to break-dance in the middle of ‘We Are The Champions.’ Only
the thought of Twilight rooting for me, gives me the courage to knock twice.

A muffled voice commands me to enter.

What hits you first is the temperature, hot and sweaty, like the Palm House at Kew Gardens; next – the sound of rushing water and the screech of exotic birds. It takes a while longer to
get used to the candlelight. ‘Nikki, Nikki, it’s me, Matt. Where are you?’

‘This had better be important.’

Bart Smedley wasn’t being metaphorical: it really is like a jungle up here. I grope my way through a tropical rainforest of man-sized yukka plants and giant orchids, trying to tell myself
it’s just fancy interior design and there can’t possibly be any snakes about. ‘I just wanted to . . .’

A silent scream echoes around my head as I emerge into the clearing and struggle to make sense of the vision in front of me. Nikki Hardbody is lying on a tree-trunk-shaped sofa while a lady in a
white coat plunges a needle into her eye. ‘What’s . . . What’s happening here?’

The lady in white slowly pulls out the needle. She hands Nikki a silver mirror before silently retreating into the bushes, like an extra from a Bond movie.

‘Are you all right?’ I say, relieved that Nikki seems to be moving. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

‘Dr Cheng was fixing my crow’s feet,’ she says, studying herself in the mirror. ‘It’s amazing what a couple of Botox injections can do if you’ve got the right
bone structure. There, what do you think?’

Her face looks like someone just threw darts at it. The strange thing is, she’s smiling harder than ever. ‘Erm . . . yeah . . . good.’

‘Now sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.’

I perch on the end of the tree trunk, trying to breathe from the diaphragm like the vocal coach taught me. ‘I don’t think I want to be in the show any more.’

Her face doesn’t move. ‘Oh yes.’

‘It’s no one’s fault or anything. I just don’t think that song is right for me.’

‘Well, that’s too bad,’ says Nikki, trailing an index finger in the indoor water feature. ‘I had high hopes for you.’

‘Really?’

‘I thought you could go all the way.’

‘What if Justin doesn’t like me?’

‘Justin will like who I tell him to like,’ says Nikki snappily.

‘And what about Elizabeth? Bex says she’s going to win it by a mile.’

‘And who’s Bex, may I ask?’

‘Oh no one,’ I say, surprised that she seems to have forgotten her so quickly. ‘Just a girl from school.’

‘She’s wrong, anyway,’ says Nikki. ‘Ugly Betty is a one-trick pit pony who’s already had fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds of fame. She won’t even make
it to the final if I have anything to do with it.’

‘I thought the public decided that.’

Nikki laughs like a rattlesnake. ‘Oh Matt, you’re so naive. That’s why I fought so hard to bring back the kiddi-winkies section. I can mould you in my own image.’

‘You mean the votes are rigged?’

‘Unfortunately that’s no longer an option. Let’s just say there are ways and means of helping our audience make the right decision.’

‘So why can’t I do one of my own songs?’

‘You will, Matt, you will,’ says Nikki, tightening the cord of her silk kimono. ‘But not in Power Ballads Week. The number we’ve chosen is perfect for you. Trust me,
I’ve worked in telly since before you were born.’

‘Yes but —’

‘I could make you famous, Matt,’ she says, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. ‘Do you know what that means?’

‘Well, I s’pose . . .’

‘Got a girlfriend, have you?’

I shake my head and move a little further down the tree trunk.

‘Thought not,’ says Nikki. ‘Let me tell you a little story. A few years back, I made a documentary about a teenager with a rare genetic disorder. Barry was no oil painting,
believe me, but you should have seen some of his fan mail.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘
The Ugliest Kid in the World
went out at ten past midnight on an obscure satellite channel. After six weeks on primetime,
you
could have any girlfriend you want.’

I think for a moment about the terrible song; then I think about the dance routine and the sparkly costume I’m supposed to be wearing. And then I remember what Twilight said:
You
’
ll never forgive yourself if you don
’
t follow your heart
.

‘I suppose I might have been a bit hasty.’

‘Yes, I think you might.’ Nikki smiles, absent-mindedly decapitating a dead orchid. ‘You see, I can do great things for you, Matt. But you’ve got to work with me here. If
I’m going be your – how shall I put it? –
special
mentor, I need you to keep the faith.’

I pull aside the creeper and try to locate the door. ‘Will you be “mentoring” some of the others as well – like Phil Carvery?’

‘God, no; I wouldn’t even call him if my lavatory was blocked. We’d be lucky to get a couple of hit singles out of him.’

‘OK,’ I say, trying to slip it stealthily into the conversation, like planting the bomb in S
earch and Destroy
. ‘How about, I don’t know . . . Twilight, for
instance?’

Nikki’s smile seems warmer than usual. ‘Well, of course. Not that she needs much moulding. We’ve got so much in common, she could almost be one of those children I never
had.’

‘That’s great. Er, for Twilight, I mean.’

‘Like her, do you?’

I step back into the shadows so she can’t see that I’m blushing. ‘Twilight’s OK, I . . .’

‘Of course you do – you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.’

‘Sorry I was only —’

‘No need to apologise. Actually, I think it’s rather sweet. In
fact
, I could almost see you as a kind of twenty-first century Kylie and Jason.’

‘Kylie and
who
?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Nikki, producing her PowerBook from behind a Yukka plant. ‘But if ratings are down, it might just be worth considering. Now get out of here.
Rumours don’t spread by magic, you know. Oh and Matt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you
ever
pull another stunt like this again. Otherwise we’ll have to dig out that contract you signed before Basic Training.’

Bex

‘I can’t do it.’

‘You’ve got to,’ says Emily, pushing me into her mum’s bedroom and closing the door behind us.

‘Do I have to?’

‘Well
I
can’t do it,’ whispers Emily. ‘I’m only eight and three quarters.’

Mrs Layton is sitting on the side of the bed in her dressing gown. She’s puffing and blowing like she’s just finished a marathon. ‘Can we get this over with, please?’

‘Where is it?’ I say, struggling not to throw up on the pale crème carpet.

‘On the dressing table,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘It’s all ready for you.’

My head starts spinning. I stumble across the bedroom, like my brother on a Saturday night. And there it is – smaller than I expected, but still dead scary – lying on a lace mat
between a bottle of perfume and a silver picture frame. ‘What a cute photo,’ I say, thinking that if I can keep her talking I won’t have to go through with it. ‘That’s
Matthew, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘He loved that doctor’s outfit.’

The little boy in the picture is holding a plastic stethoscope up to his mum’s stomach. ‘You both look so happy.’

‘We were,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘It was just before my first . . . episode.’

‘The bump’s me,’ explains Emily. ‘I kicked so hard Mum thought I was going to be a footballer.’

‘That’s what your father was hoping anyway,’ says Mrs Layton.

One bedside table is empty; the other reminds me of those modern sculpture things we did in art. It’s a mountain of paperbacks, every painkiller you’ve ever heard of, three dirty
coffee cups, an old-fashioned radio and an empty CD case with
Relaxing Sounds of the Rainforest
on the front. Mrs Layton somehow manages to pull out some paracetamol without bringing the
whole lot down on top of her. ‘Bloody child-proof bottles. Open it for me, will you, Emily?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

Mrs Layton swallows a couple of pink tablets and washes them down with a mouthful of cold coffee. ‘Now for heaven’s sake, get a move on. This is humiliating enough as it
is.’

‘Yes . . . right,’ I say, my hands trembling almost as badly as hers, as I break open the top of the pre-loaded syringe and attach it to the needle. ‘What’s it for
anyway? I thought you’d stopped taking those steroid things.’