The Bex Factor (15 page)

‘It started with a tingling feeling in my fingertips, like pins and needles. And then there was the dizziness, like the whole world was spinning and it was one hell of a job just to stay
on my feet. Melvin put it down to too much French vino, but I knew there was more to it than that. So when we got back, I waited until Matthew was at nursery and made an appointment with the
doctor.

‘Was it Dr Phillips, Mum?’ says Emily. ‘She’s nice.’

‘I can’t remember his name. But he said it was probably stress-related and sent me for a few tests, “just to put both our minds at rest”. Nothing was very conclusive, so
it wasn’t until almost a year later that Dr Phillips called me into the health centre to break the news.’

‘She means that she had multiple sclerosis,’ says Emily, sounding like she’s practising a tongue-twister.

‘I didn’t know much about MS, only that a friend of my mother’s died of it, but it turned out I had the relapsing, remitting kind.’

‘That’s when it keeps coming and going,’ says Emily. ‘You’re OK for ages, and then when you get sick again, they call it a flare-up.’

Mrs Layton squeezes out a J-cloth and throws it in the sink. ‘I didn’t have my next one for another eighteen months. That’s what I hate most about the damned thing: it’s
so unpredictable.’

‘Like when you really need a wee and you can’t stop yourself?’ suggests Emily. ‘Mum’s got a special card with
I can
’
t wait
on it.’

Mrs Layton lowers herself on to a kitchen chair, resting her crutches against the table. ‘It went on like that for the next five years. But then the flare-ups started getting more severe
– I’ve told you how Melvin reacted to that bloody wheelchair – and the recoveries were never quite as complete. It was like that song: every time it went away it took a little
piece of me with it.

‘We’ve got something for you,’ I say, thinking it’s probably the perfect time. ‘Me and Emily have been working on it all week.’

‘Wait a minute,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘You asked me what it was like. You haven’t heard the worst part yet.’

‘Sorry, it’s just that we’ve —’

‘I loved my job, but I was having so much time off, it just wasn’t fair on my students – so I chucked it in. That’s when I started getting a bit . . .’ She waves in
the direction of her coffin. ‘. . . obsessive. That’s when Melvin decided to hit the road.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Matthew told me.’

‘He thinks it’s all my fault, of course. He’s so ashamed of me. Why do you think he’s never mentioned me on that wretched TV show? Why do you think he hardly ever bothers
to return my texts?’

‘I’m sure he’s just busy,’ I say, remembering he hasn’t called me in nearly a week.

‘And now Melvin’s business has gone tits up and we might have to sell the house,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I told him he should have done a proper SWOT analysis.’

‘A what?’ I say, wondering if it’s something to do with computer games.

Emily looks at me like I’m a complete drongo. ‘SWOT stands for strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats. Every new business should do one.’

‘Never mind that,’ I say. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you, Sue. We were going to show you at the weekend, but it looks like you could do with cheering up right now. Why
don’t you go out and get it, Emily?’

‘Yesssss!’ says Emily, almost throwing herself out of the back door.

‘Well, come on,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Don’t keep me in suspenders. What’s the big secret?’

I
so
want her to love it. She seemed like a bit of a cow at first, but once you get to know her, she’s all right. ‘It was a joint effort,’ I say. ‘I did the
designs and Emily picked the colours. Well, you said how much you hated it.’

‘Da-da,’ says Emily proudly, as she wheels it into the kitchen and parks it in front of her mum. ‘Well, what do you think?’

Sue Layton is lost for words.

‘We’ve “pimped” your wheelchair,’ I say. ‘You thought we were doing Emily’s homework, but we were out in the garage getting it ready for you.’

‘Look, Mum,’ says Emily, walking around it, like the bloke who sold Dad his new van. ‘It’s got a horn,’ (she parps it) ‘wing mirrors so you can see
what’s behind you, and we painted it silver and gold so it looked like a Roman chariot – that was my idea. Do you like it Mum? Do you like it?’

‘Come on,’ I say sounding
just
like the bloke who sold Dad his new van. ‘Why don’t we take her for a spin?’

Sue Layton is so happy she can hardly speak.

‘Get that
bloody
thing out of here,’ she whispers. ‘What were you thinking? Look, I’m sure you meant well, but my life is not a game, you know. A wheelchair is a
wheelchair is a
wheelchair;
just because you’ve slapped on a few coats of tacky silver paint, doesn’t mean I’m going to be seen dead in it. Now
please
, take it
away.’

Matthew

Twilight’s been loads friendlier since I told her about Mum. She keeps asking if I’m OK, and saying how special it feels to be sharing a secret with me. Life could
hardly be better.

I don’t like my song this week either, but I’m having so much fun I don’t even care. I’ve been gunged on children’s TV, hung out with some actors off that soap Dad
used to watch, done a photo-shoot for a major high-street fashion outlet and now here we are on the red carpet, outside the cinema in Leicester Square, at the premiere of that big 3D movie about
the alien who falls in love with a human and transforms himself into a giant butterfly so he can save the world from global warming.

The paparazzi are all over Elizabeth McQueen. It’s lucky she hasn’t got epilepsy because all that flash photography is like a DIY strobe effect. Phil Carvery is getting a lot of
attention too, and the twins are squirting the guy from
Newsround
with their water pistols.

And then something incredible happens. ‘Let’s walk in together, shall we?’ Twilight takes my arm and steers me across the red carpet towards the television cameras.
‘Don’t forget to smile,’ she says, planting a kiss on my cheek as every lens in Leicester Square seems to turn in our direction.

Three and a half hours later, the limo drops us outside the Celebrity Conservatoire. And to tell you the truth, I’m ever so slightly fed-up. The 3D effects were a bit
rubbish, and Twilight wouldn’t sit next to me with all the cameras about. I tried telling her they wouldn’t dare take any photographs during the movie, but she didn’t want to risk
it, and I ended up next to Bart Smedley who kept complaining about the wooden acting.

Twilight flies up the steps towards reception as soon as the guy in the peaked cap lets us out of the limo. The twins do that ‘funny’ thing where they pretend to get stuck in the
door and I’m just trying to catch up with Twilight when someone grabs me round the neck, pulls me back down the steps and into the alleyway that leads to the tradesman’s entrance.

‘Get off! Get off me!’ I scream.

Nikki says you’re not a real celebrity until you meet your first stalker, but this is horrible. Whoever it is is way stronger than me, so I give up struggling and start begging.
‘Please, just tell me what you want. I’ll do . . .’ But it gets a hundred times worse when he loosens his hold and I realise who it is. ‘What are
you
doing
here?’

His eyes are wild and staring and his breath stinks of takeaway Chinese.

‘Look, leave me alone,’ I say, breaking away from him and trying to brush the creases out of my new white suit. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘Don’t be like that, son,’ says Dad, who looks pretty ridiculous in the old denim jacket that Mum told him to donate to Oxfam. ‘I just wanted to congratulate you,
that’s all.’

I’m not sure whether to hug him or kick him where it hurts. ‘Really?’

‘I watched the show on Saturday. I’m so proud of you, Matthew.’

Actually, the beard kind of suits him. ‘Thanks, Dad. Nikki – she’s the producer – says she’s going to let me do one of my own songs soon.’

‘Good,’ says Dad, suddenly sounding a whole lot chirpier. ‘Because that’s what I want to talk to you about.’

He was always much more into my music than Mum. He’s even got a mega rare twelve inch single of ‘Pretty Vacant’. I know I said I never wanted to see him again, but it just
feels right somehow. ‘Which one of my songs do you think I should do?’

‘No, son,’ says Dad, fumbling in his denim jacket. ‘That’s not what I mean. I want to talk about Nikki Hardbody.’

‘Eh?’

He hands me one of his business cards. ‘That woman’s a TV legend. Give her this, will you? Like I said, I watched the show on Saturday and I thought the graphics were looking a
little bit tired. Tell her I’ve got a great idea for some new idents.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ I say, screwing up his card and throwing it back at him. ‘I thought you cared about me.’

Dad reaches down into the gutter and picks it up. ‘Of course I do, Matthew. That’s why I’m so desperate for some new work. If Instant Graphixication goes under, I won’t
be able to support you and your mum any more.’

‘Just like you supported us when you walked out, you mean?’

‘That was different,’ he says, shrinking into his jacket like a humiliated tortoise. ‘You know how difficult things were. And anyway, I didn’t walk, I was
pushed.’

‘Yeah, right,’ I say, turning away and walking towards reception.

‘Believe whatever you want to believe, son. But please, just do this for me. We really need the money.’

‘Oh come off it, Dad. Everyone knows you’re loaded. What was it you got for the last job?’

‘All gone,’ he says, stepping towards me, and looking hurt when I keep on walking. ‘Look, your mother was right, I never should have gone freelance. Honestly, son – you
should see the way I’m living now.’

‘You’re a liar,’ I say, choking on a mixture of snot and tears as I stumble towards reception. ‘Now sod off and leave me alone. You made your decision when you abandoned
us.’

And that’s when I start running; down the alleyway, up the steps, through the revolving door, past the girl on reception who’s started smiling at me and into the lift. When the doors
open, I start running again and I don’t stop until I come to a halt outside a room on the ninth floor.

‘Can we talk, please?’

Twilight is wearing a purple dressing gown. I think I can smell burning. ‘Is this about your mother?’ she says anxiously.

‘Not really, no.’

‘Some other time then. I’m having a bit of a bad hair decade.’

‘Yes but . . .’

I’ve often stared at the outside of her door, wondering what was going on inside. There’s a small scratch just below the handle and some dirty finger marks that must have been made
by a toddler or a very short man. I think about knocking again, only I don’t want to bother Twilight if she’s having problems with her hair.

I know I haven’t called her in a while, but I really need to talk.