Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (12 page)

Loaf resumes his position behind the cash desk, where there’s a greasy Subway wrapper paper-weighted by half a chicken roll. ‘I suppose you’ve come to kit out Sing It Back for your
television debut
,’ he says, delivering this last part with contempt.

I lean my elbows on the counter. ‘This is what I need,’ I say, producing Evan’s list.

‘Do your parents know about this?’ he asks, taking a bite of his sandwich.

‘About what?’ As if I haven’t the faintest clue what he’s talking about.

‘About Tooth & Nail.’

I put the inventory down in front of him. ‘Do you have any of this or should I go elsewhere?’

He’s eyeing me solemnly. ‘You should be careful.’

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Instead he feeds the straw into the top of a Capri Sun and slurps the entire thing in one noisy go, in a way that reminds me of this alien film I once saw where they all went about sticking
rubbery antenna into people’s heads and sucking their brains out.

‘Why’s that?’

‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

I fight exasperation. ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him, ‘I’ve had that from everyone already. Rest assured this wasn’t something I went into lightly.’

Loaf hesitates. ‘Just watch your back, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘I fully intend to.’

He nods. ‘Good. Because things might not be … quite what they seem.’

OK, this guy’s
weird
. He’s like the mad portentous garage owner you get in horror films set in the deep south, the one who tries to warn you about the local population of inbreds.

How on earth do my parents know him? I always thought Loaf was just some random who got drunk at the end of the bar. If only I could speak to them about it … but then how do I explain what I’m doing at Rock Around the Clock in the first place?

Dad phoned yesterday. We’ve been in touch several times since the deal with Tooth & Nail was finalised, and each time my omission of this glaring development has proved harder to conceal than the last. It’s not that they’re asking difficult questions – as far as the club goes I’m telling them everything’s ticking over as normal – but I hate deceiving them … fibbing, faking, little white lies; whatever you want to call it, I’m not telling the truth.

I’m assuring myself it’s because I want the surprise to be even greater when they return, but in truth I’m bricking it about their reaction. They left me in charge, yes, but they
didn’t ask me to broadcast their pride and joy to the entire nation. If it all goes wrong, what then? And the longer I keep it from them, the trickier it becomes to just drop it into conversation:
Oh, hang on, Dad – before you go, I wanted to let you know I’ve agreed to a deal with a TV company. Brilliant, isn’t it? Not a big issue, we’ll only be on telly every night of the week. That’s right, I basically signed Sing It Back into someone else’s hands. Ha ha. Oh yes, and you’ll barely recognise the place by the time you get back. Really hope you like it!!!

I mean, there’s never an opportunity to get it in. Yesterday’s chat, for instance – from Estonia, no less – went something like this:

Dad: ‘Maddie, I forgot to tell you: we left some perishables in the fridge. Mum remembered when we boarded the coach this morning.’

Me: ‘It’s OK, Dad, I’ve sorted it.’

Dad: ‘Anything exciting happening there?’

Me: ‘No! Definitely not!’

Dad: ‘Nothing at all?’

Me: ‘Nothing whatsoever!’

Dad: ‘How’s the club?’

Me: ‘Fine! Couldn’t be better!’

Dad: ‘And everyone there? How’s Archie?’

Me: ‘Great! Everyone’s great! Same as always!’

Dad: ‘That’s wonderful, darling. Mum’s struck up a friendship with Carol Decker. Did you know the two of them share the same birthday?’

Hmm, I probably
could
have dropped it in there somewhere, but trust me, it’s harder than it sounds.

‘I promise to be careful,’ I tell Loaf gravely, thinking if
we can just get past this he might help me out with the stock.

But Loaf doesn’t look convinced. For a moment he seems to think about expanding on his theme, but then decides against it.

Instead he snatches the list off me. ‘Right, let’s see what we can do.’

When I get back, decorations are still in full swing.

Jaz pounces on me as soon as I walk in the door, clutching a bundle of paint brushes and with multi-coloured splodges on her face. ‘I need your help,’ she breathes, pulling me through the littered wreckage of power tools, bin bags and sawdust.

I can’t argue with that. Jaz has taken this
artiste
thing to the next level: she’s wearing a little black cap over her tumble of red hair, a stripy sweater and skinny jeans, and there’s a white silk ribbon tied around her neck. She looks like a cross between a Pierrot clown and the star of a beatnik movie. She’s brandishing a palette. What is this, a French master’s atelier?

‘Maddie!’ booms Evan from the bar. He’s busy bossing about a guy in white overalls who looks distinctly pissed off. ‘Did you get what we need?’

‘It’s on order!’ I yell over my shoulder, as Jaz and I duck under a step ladder and she yanks me to a halt.

I look up. Wow.

It’s a portrait of Andre, and it’s nearly bigger than me.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Jaz asks, her cheeks flushed.

I’m not sure what to say. It’s a picture of a guinea pig in lederhosen. I suppose it’s quite good, as pictures of guinea pigs
in lederhosen go, but his facial expression unnerves me. Is he smiling?

I peer in closer. ‘Is he smiling?’

‘It’s a half smile,’ reveals Jaz, pleased with herself. ‘Like the
Mona Lisa
.’

I try my own half smile. ‘Exactly like it,’ I agree, putting my arm round her. ‘I’m impressed. Is Evan OK with it?’

‘He said I could have this
one
patch,’ she grumbles. ‘And if he doesn’t like it, he’s painting over it.’

‘Well,
I
like it,’ I say, and looking at it again I decide that I do. ‘It stays.’

We’re interrupted by a kerfuffle over at the bar, followed swiftly by an almighty crash. I turn round to see Evan’s large frame stumbling over. In an effort to break his fall he grabs the bar with both hands, swinging off it like a bare-bottomed monkey.

‘Would somebody
get that rat out of here
!’ he roars, red in the face, recovering himself. Andre the guinea pig scampers, oblivious, through the debris, clad in a mini hand-sewn Breton jumper and matching beret.

‘He’s not a rat!’ objects Jaz, rushing over and scooping him up. ‘He only wants to help. Don’t you, Andre?’

Andre twitches his nose in assent.

Evan’s attending to his spongy hair. ‘He can help by leaving us all to get on with it,’ he spits. ‘This is no place for vermin.’

Jaz flounces off in a strop, muttering, ‘Tell me about it.’

Over by the stage, Rob Day aka Ruby du Jour catches my eye and gives me a wink. It’s a good job Rob’s turned up for the renovations, as I can imagine Ruby breaking a fingernail or
several and wailing at such pitch about it that the newly installed mirrors shatter into millions of tiny pieces (though they surely have to be reinforced to survive the menace of drunken karaoke). Plus it looks like Rob’s equipped with an impressive array of DIY tools.

It’s good to have Rob back. I remember what a handsome man he is under the big costume – he’s got a really beautiful face, lovely cheekbones and kind, green eyes surrounded by long dark lashes. He’s built like a dancer, tall and supple, and he moves easily, like a cat, full of grace. It’s a pity he doesn’t see what we see – and what Bobbi Sanchez must have seen, once upon a time – because without the big outfit he simply lacks confidence. Ruby’s his mask, his disguise, his costume. It’s as if he doesn’t quite know who Rob Day is.

‘How’s it going?’ I ask, watching him drill a smooth hole into the wall and dust it off.

Rob’s voice is softer, quieter than Ruby’s. ‘Good, I think …’ He leans in. ‘Evan’s a hard task master, isn’t he?’

I make a face. ‘Just a bit.’

‘Did you hear what he said when he turned up this morning?’

I shake my head.

‘He said, “Where’s that drag queen I was promised?”’

‘Oh, Rob, I’m sorry.’

He laughs. ‘Don’t worry about it; it was funny. And he never guessed it was me.’ He flexes his arm and a not-very-impressive bicep pushes at the skin. ‘Must be the pecs.’

I grin back. ‘Must be. But seriously, I don’t know where he gets off. I haven’t even mentioned Ruby – and you mustn’t feel you have to … play up to it, or perform, or anything. That’s the wrong word, but you know what I mean.’

There’s a glint in Rob’s eye. ‘She’s dying to meet him.’

Archie joins us. ‘All right if we ’ave a word?’ he asks me in a hushed tone. ‘In private?’

Clearly Evan’s had the old man working to the hilt as well – Archie looks anxious and flustered, a bit disorientated. It’s one thing to have the rest of us doing hard labour but I’ve really got to speak to him about this.

Rob and I exchange glances. He shrugs. ‘Go ahead.’

‘I’ve got some excitin’ news,’ Archie tells me once we’re wedged among the boxes in the store room. ‘Well,
I
think it’s excitin’.’

‘Great!’ I say. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, it’s a bit unexpected …’

I wait for him to go on.

‘Turns out I’ve come into a bit o’ money.’ He licks his lips and I can see his hands are trembling ever so slightly. ‘Quite a lot, as it goes.’

‘But that’s wonderful, Archie!’

‘Yeah … cousin o’ mine … passed away …’ Archie’s always been a mumbler, but now I can scarcely make out what he’s saying.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ I didn’t know Archie had any elderly relatives – but then why would I?

‘… She left a bit o’ cash behind …’

‘She must have cared for you a great deal,’ I say, touching his arm.

He looks up at me. ‘So I’m quitting.’

The announcement is so abrupt that for a moment I don’t think I’ve heard right.

‘Archie, no—’

‘I’ve made me mind up.’

A horrible thought occurs to me. ‘If it’s about the show, I promise you I’ll—’

‘It ain’t nothin’ to do with that.’ He clasps my shoulders. ‘Or with you. You’re a lovely girl, Maddie, an’ your parents should be proud.’

‘But …’ I’m at a loss. Archie’s the longest-serving member of the bar, he’s
always
been here. He’s one of my parents’ favourite people. I can’t let him go.

‘What can I do to persuade you to stay?’ I plead, desperate.

He shakes his head, smiles a little sadly. ‘Absolutely nothin’, pet. I’m retirin’ to a lovely cottage by the sea. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Now I can afford it, I don’t intend to wait a moment longer.’

I don’t know what to say. But before I’ve had a chance to even think about it, the store room door slams open and Evan’s in my face.

‘What’s going on?’ he demands. ‘Friday’s only days away – this is hardly the time for a mothers’ meeting.’

‘I was just tellin’ Maddie about my decision,’ says Archie deliberately, sending him an odd look.

Evan’s voice softens like ice cream in the sun. ‘Ah yes, of course, of course.’

I’m confused. ‘Evan already knows?’

Evan makes a show of almost closing the door, inferring we have his undivided attention, but I notice he refrains from shutting it completely.

‘Archie came to me this morning,’ he admits quietly. ‘He’s very sad about leaving you, and the club, and all his friends …’

Archie nods. ‘I am.’

‘We’re sad to lose him,’ I say, hardly believing the words even as I say them.

‘It’s a great shame …’ Evan arranges his features into an expression of regret.

We all stand there in silence for a moment, like Archie’s died or something, and then I see Evan’s eyes flick to the old man. Immediately Archie makes his excuses and ducks back into the bar. As soon as he’s out of sight, Evan brightens.