The Bex Factor (5 page)

I’m standing on the steps outside the exhibition centre, underneath a giant inflatable of
The Tingle Factor
logo, watching a half-empty pleasure boat ploughing
through the Thames.

I had to get out of the holding area. We’ve been there all day. Bex is OK I guess, but why did she have to bring her whole family with her? If
you
’
d
spent an hour in
the back of a van with Kyle McCrory attempting to fart the theme tune from
Star Wars
, and an equally flatulent baby, you’d know why I need some fresh air.

But it’s not just that. When I’m with the McCrorys, it reminds me of Mum and Dad. Or how they used to be, anyway. The first time we came to London, we took an open-top bus ride and
Mum pretended to be all embarrassed when Dad did a funny commentary for the Japanese tourists.

What am I playing at? I promised myself I wouldn’t waste another second thinking about him. Why would anyone in their right mind spend half their waking hours daydreaming about the man who
ruined their life?

London’s a big place, I know, but wherever he is, he’s only a tube ride away. It would be so easy. I’ve still got his new address in the bottom of my guitar case. When he gave
it to me, I tore it up and chucked it straight in the recycling bin. I only sellotaped it back together in case I wanted to stick dogshit through his letterbox or something. And in my head,
I’m halfway to the tube station when I notice a black, hooded figure, gliding up the steps.

If this was a movie, we’d just be arriving at the slow motion sequence with the cool indie soundtrack. Dad vanishes, like a ‘stubborn stain’ zapped by the latest biological
washing powder and an ice-cold finger doodles its way up my spine. I don’t do girls, but if I did, they’d probably look a bit like the one in the long black coat coming towards me, her
pale skin so smooth she makes Bex look like the dark side of the moon, her blood red lips forming a strange smile that mesmerises me the moment she gets within spitting distance. And just as
she’s about to glide past, she pulls back her hood and a waterfall of jet black hair cascades on to her shoulders.

‘Oi, matey,’ calls a faraway voice. ‘Bex is going bananas.’

‘Eh . . . what?’

‘Come on, Geez. Get your arse back in there.’

In my head, I’m still staring into her hypnotic green eyes when I realise that Kyle McCrory and his dad are slap bang in front of me. And they don’t look best pleased.

‘No worries,’ I say, trying to catch a last glimpse of the girl in black. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘Good luck,’ I say, squinting in the scorching lights. ‘Just do it like we did it in your room and you’ll be fine.’

‘Thanks,’ says Bex, looking really awkward in her little red dress and sparkly high heels.

Wherever you look there’s a camera, and the studio is teeming with clones in black T-shirts, whispering into matching headsets, scurrying around like worker ants.

‘OK,’ says the woman with the clipboard. ‘See that mark on the floor? Stand there and wait for the judges.’

Like I say, my sister Emily loves this show. I’m into real music, so I never watch all of it. But I usually abandon my Xbox for the last five minutes to check out who’s been evicted.
That’s why I recognise two of the judges. The glamorous granny, getting her make-up fixed, is Brenda. She’s the sympathetic one who gives out hugs when Justin says something horrible. I
don’t know the girl in the crop top, but Bex says she was in that girlband who did the song from that yoghurt advert.

Then of course there’s Justin. You’d have to be from another solar system not to recognise him. Right now he’s deep in conversation with the producer, Nikki Hardbody, who asked
us all those strange questions this morning after a researcher picked us out of the crowd. The weird thing about her is that she
never
stops smiling. Actually, it’s more of a half
smile, kind of like the Mona Lisa, but a bit scary. She whispers in Justin’s ear and retreats into the shadows.

‘All right, my darling,’ says Brenda. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’

‘It’s, er . . . it’s Bex . . . Bex McCrory.’

‘And how about your cute friend?’

Bex is trembling, like Mum on a bad day. ‘His name’s Matthew. He’s going to play the guitar for me.’

‘All right, Bex,’ says Justin, pouring himself a glass of water. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. What’s the dream here?’

Bex regurgitates all that stuff she told the producer this morning. ‘Well, I want a hit single, of course.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And three platinum albums, yeah? Before I’m sixteen. And then I want to crack the States.’ Her plan for world domination still sounds a bit out of character, but the judges
seem to be loving it.

‘OK, my angel,’ says Brenda. ‘What have you got for us?’

‘I’m going to sing “Umbrella”, by Rihanna.’

Justin yawns and raises a trademark eyebrow. ‘Oh dear God. I wish people would be more original.’

‘Don’t listen to him, precious,’ says Brenda. ‘You take your time now.’

Bex stares at the judges, sweat glistening on her forehead. I come down hard on the first chord. Bex doesn’t even move. So I repeat the opening two bars, hoping she’ll get her act
together. When she finally opens her mouth, all that comes out is a terrified squeak.

‘Come on,’ I whisper. ‘You can do this. I know you can.’

Although it’s not the best she’s ever sung it, by the time we get to the chorus and I’m singing along too, Justin is tapping his fingers. And I don’t want to jinx
anything, but I’m pretty confident about the judges’ comments.

Jesamène, the one from the girlband, thinks it’s ‘all a bit karaoke’, and wonders what on earth Bex was trying to do with the dress. (‘Retro, only not in a good
way.’)

Brenda reminds Jesamène that Bex is a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl and says she should ‘give her a break’.

Justin is quite keen on the singing, hates the song choice but likes the arrangement. ‘OK, guys. Let’s vote on this, shall we?’

It feels like really bad pins and needles, until I realise that Bex is digging her fingernails into the back of my wrist.

‘It’s a no from me, I’m afraid,’ says Jesamène.

Brenda gives Jesamène one of her filthiest looks. ‘And it’s a one million percent yes from me, honey.’

So Justin has the casting vote. He leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. ‘Let me see now . . .’

Bex starts begging. ‘Please, Justin. I won’t let you down, I swear . . .’

‘Look, no offence,’ says Justin. ‘I’m not sure your voice is up to it.’

‘I can work on that,’ says Bex, mopping up tears with the sleeve of her dress. ‘
Please
. This is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s my dream, Justin.
Please
.
You’ve got to give me another chance.’

Justin glances into the shadows. ‘I don’t think so. Look, you gave it your best shot and it just wasn’t good enough.’

Bex’s face is awash with black rivers of mascara. ‘Please . . . please . . . this means everything to me . . .’

Justin shakes his head. ‘It’s a no from me too. I’m not going to lie to you, Rebecca. You seem like a nice kid, but “nice” doesn’t really cut it around here.
I couldn’t tell you what
The Tingle Factor
is exactly, but take it from me, you
definitely
haven’t got it.’

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so disappointed. Even Mum has her anger to fall back on, but Bex looks like a shell-shock victim from those black and white films we saw in
history. I sort of feel I ought to try and cheer her up; tell her a joke, pat her on the back or something.

But before I can think of anything, Brenda has jumped out from behind the judges’ desk and wrapped her arms around Bex. ‘Don’t take any notice of him, petal. What does he know,
anyway?’

Brenda and the guy with the handheld camera escort Bex off the set. I’m almost at the door myself when Justin calls out, ‘Nice guitar playing, by the way.’

By the time I get to the holding area, World War Three has broken out.

‘That was out of order,’ says Mr McCrory, waving his finger at the camera. ‘Justin ought to be ashamed of himself.’

Mrs McCrory offers her sobbing daughter a hand-sized pack of tissues from a OneStop bag. ‘Never mind, love. There’s always next year.’

‘Yeah,’ says her sister Natalie, playing aeroplanes with the flatulent baby and looking happier than she has done all day. ‘Don’t worry about it, Bex.’

Kyle McCrory is spitting blood. ‘No one treats my little sister like that. I’ll smash his face in.’

All this shouting reminds me of Mum and Dad. But just when the noise is becoming unbearable, I see something that turns it instantly into a distant hum.

It’s the girl in the black coat.

Is it me, or is it really hot in here? Blood races to my cheeks as I reacquaint myself with her cool, white features. Thank goodness the McCrorys are still creating the mother of all diversions.
It gives me the chance to edge a little closer and try and hear what she’s saying.

Her voice is as cool as the rest of her. ‘I don’t care if it does save time. I am not a number, all right? If you want me, the least you can do is call me by my proper name.
It’s Twilight, OK?’

‘Whatever,’ says the woman with the clipboard.

‘Can you believe that?’

My heart starts beating in triplets when I realise she’s talking to me. ‘Er . . . well . . . I . . . er . . .’

‘I know it’s a cattle call and everything, but this is a joke.’

‘Oh . . . yeah.’

‘Great guitar,’ says Twilight. ‘You need something to make you stand out around here. And I’m not talking about the guys in the chicken outfits.’

‘Oh no, I’m only here to . . .’

‘Do you know where the loo is? My face must be a mess.’

‘End of the corridor,’ I say, resisting the temptation to point out that her face looks pretty perfect to me. ‘Would you like me to . . .?’

‘Got to go,’ she says, unravelling her black silk scarf to reveal her smooth white neck. ‘When that rabble finally realise it’s time to shuffle back to Chavland,
I’ll be going in next. See you at Basic Training perhaps.’

Before I can say something that makes me look an even bigger dork, she waves her fingers at me and smiles. And that’s when I start wondering if I’m seeing things; that’s when I
get my first glimpse of her glistening fangs.

‘Oi, matey,’ calls Mr McCrory. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Well, I . . .’

The shouting has died down. Mr and Mrs McCrory look like they’ve won the lottery, Kyle McCrory is punching the air like a footballer, Bex is kind of crying and laughing at the same time
(only in a good way) and Nikki Hardbody is observing them all with a distant smile. I don’t get it.

Bex

I feel so happy I could almost kiss him. If it wasn’t for his brilliant guitar playing, we’d be back on the M25.

‘Hey, Bex,’ says Matthew. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The judges want to see me again. Brilliant, isn’t it?’

‘Oh . . . yeah,’ says Matthew. ‘Brilliant.’

Nikki Hardbody looks well glamorous in her tight leather trousers and tight
Say No to Poverty
T-shirt. When she told me just now, I was like,
Get out of here
. I must have thanked
her that many times she looks almost embarrassed about it.

‘It was Justin’s idea really,’ she says. ‘Let’s go in, shall we?’

‘I think I’ll stay here,’ says Matthew, staring down the corridor. ‘They don’t need me, anyway.’

‘No,’ says Nikki. ‘You’d better come too, Matt . . . just in case they want another song.’

‘OK then,’ says Matthew, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘You haven’t forgotten I need to be home by about six?’

Nikki leads us back to the judges. She has a quick word with Justin and one of the cameramen before standing at the side and watching through a big TV screen.

‘Right,’ says Justin. ‘Listen up. I have a feeling we’ve made a mistake with you guys.’

It happens nearly every year; someone thinks they’re going home and then Justin or Brenda changes their mind at the last minute. This is going to be so great. The hardest thing is trying
not to let on that I know exactly what they’re up to.

Justin takes a sip of water. ‘You see, we really liked Matt’s guitar playing.’

What’s that got to do with it?

‘He’s got a gorgeous voice too,’ says Brenda. ‘Very contemporary.’

‘And doesn’t he look hot?’ says Jesamène. ‘The young chicks will go crazy for him.’

Every camera in the room seems to turn towards me. ‘I don’t get it. Are you . . . are you saying you want us to be one of the groups?’

‘Not quite, sweetheart,’ says Justin. ‘Like I say, you’re a nice kid and everything – and don’t take this the wrong way – but you’ve got about as
much chance of winning
The Tingle Factor
as my dead grandmother.’

This time I’m too shocked even to beg. ‘Then what do you . . .?’

‘We’d like to take Matt through to Basic Training,’ says Justin.

It feels like I’m keeping it together, until the room starts shaking and the scream that I thought was inside my head explodes into the outside world. ‘Nooooooo.’

Brenda is on me in a flash, grabbing me round the neck and pulling my head on to her expensive boob job. ‘That’s right, precious child. Let it all out.’