Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (29 page)

‘It was on last night?’ I groan. I love Lou for not telling me
and I hate her at the same time. I expect it’s splashed across the tabloids as well.

‘Yuh.’ Lawrence rubs his hands together. ‘Look, Mads, I’ve got to say: I don’t trust him.’

‘That makes two of us,’ I say drily, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Lawrence pounces on it like a cat on a mouse.

‘Oh yuh?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Are you seeing him?’

I don’t know if it’s just because we’re discussing a disastrous romantic episode with another man, but when I look into Lawrence’s eyes I think I see genuine affection. Is it possible he does still care, despite everything? He knows me – and what’s more, he was
right
about me. I’m Maddie Mulhern, the quiet, careful one; the one who’s best off backstage, not in front of the cameras, exactly like he said – because look where that leaves me? This is where I belong.

But does that mean I belong with him?

‘No, I’m not.’

He exhales audibly. ‘That’s good. Because when I saw you two together—’

‘Please be honest, Lawrence. Could you … on the bridge, I mean, could you hear anything we said?’

To my intense relief Lawrence shakes his head. ‘Nuh, it was shot from a distance – it was just, you know,’ he clears his throat, ‘the significant bit.’

Phew.

There’s a knock on the door.

‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘It’ll be Alison. She’s been trying to get the cameras in here since the start, she’s like a bulldog.’

‘Maybe we should let them in!’ Lawrence pats my leg, the other hand smoothing his already smooth hair. ‘Just let everyone see you’re OK.’

I baulk. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’

‘The viewers care, Mads …’ He jumps up and pads over to the door, checking his reflection in the mirror on the way past. ‘You can’t just leave them in the lurch.’

‘Lawrence, don’t you dare.’

He peers through the peephole. ‘Oh,’ he says, bored, and his shoulders actually sag, ‘it’s just Ruby du Jour and one of her drag queen friends.’

‘Fine.’ I yawn, waving my hand in assent. ‘They can come in.’

Lawrence pulls open the door and what looks like a bundle of Christmas wrapping paper rustles through. Ruby and Davinia – who, in Lawrence’s defence, does bear a striking resemblance to her companion – are done up in almost identical dresses. I recognise Davinia’s from a mobile phone launch party I saw her photographed at last year.

‘Maddie, we need you back downstairs,’ Ruby commands. ‘This minute!’

With a fierce shake of my head, I burrow back into the sofa. ‘I’m
ill
. Leave me alone.’

Davinia wrings her hands together. ‘It really would be for the best … We need your help. Jaz is drunk.’

‘So?’ I say selfishly, unable to think of anything worse than facing that club right now – than facing Nick Craven, to be more specific. I’m mortified at having fallen for his hackneyed charms. ‘I don’t blame her. Anyway, I’m contagious.’

‘I’ll come,’ chips in Lawrence, already going to grab his coat.

‘No, Lawrence,’ I say fiercely, ‘you’ll do no such thing.’

Davinia glances nervously at Ruby. ‘There’s going to be trouble,’ she warns. ‘Things are … kicking off.’

‘I don’t doubt that,’ I complain, and I know I’m behaving like a brat. ‘Things are kicking off for me as well, and there’s no way you’re getting me down there tonight.’

‘But, Maddie,’ Ruby comes over and sits down, ‘we came up here because we need you.’ She lowers her voice. ‘There have been some …
developments
you should know about.’

‘I’m sure there have!’ I cry, unable to think outside my own predicament. In a millisecond I convince myself that Nick’s been filmed snogging some other poor girl and this turns into everyone snogging each other and then it’s a big revolting snogathon while I, the lone leprous pariah, rot away upstairs.

‘Come on,’ says Ruby, suddenly efficient and clapping her hands together in an awful way reminiscent of a primary school teacher who once forced me to eat corned beef and made the whole class stay behind till I finished every last scrap. ‘Time to get you up and about.’

She and Davinia get to work, gathering up the pizza box and tugging at my duvet. Lawrence edges towards the door, primed for the green light.

‘No!’ I wrench the duvet back and for a moment it’s me engaged in a tug of war with two gender-ambiguous fairy godmothers, both forcing me to go to the ball. ‘Just fuck off! Leave me alone! For god’s sake, what part of that don’t you
get
?’

Abruptly they let go and the duvet descends on me in a great cloud. I battle it off and two heavily made-up, sorely
disappointed faces appear over the top. I’m behaving like a selfish shit. And now I’ve hurt their feelings – Ruby’s especially.

‘If that’s the way you feel,’ says Davinia tersely, swivelling on her heel.

‘Davinia, wait—’

Ruby doesn’t say anything; she just looks at me. And that’s a million times worse.

‘One more night,’ she says, pointing a painted fingernail at me – behind the big hair and make-up I can see Rob’s gentle gaze, and I know this is serious – ‘then you’re coming back. You can’t duck out of your responsibilities, Maddie. You started this. And now you’ve got to reap what you’ve sown.’

The following evening, at seven o’clock, I force myself to emerge. Not just because it’s about time I showed my face at Pineapple, but because Lawrence has finally cajoled me into going out with him.

Maybe it’s a stupid decision, but the past few days have put things in perspective. I feel like I’ve been playing at being someone I’m not – parading myself on TV; taking the reins of a project I’m not experienced enough to handle; opening up to a man I know nothing about and finding out he’s totally duped me – and sure enough I’ve been well and truly stung by it. I want my old life back. Plus I’ve realised that while I wasn’t
exactly
happy
when I was with Lawrence, I wasn’t miserable either … and I was a damn sight better than I am now. Compared with how Nick’s treated me, Lawrence is positively princely.

Not that this has anything to do with Nick Craven. Of course it hasn’t.

Jaz is already there when I go downstairs. She looks sheepish when I walk into the bar, and isn’t in her usual outrageous attire. Instead she’s wearing a subdued pair of faded dungarees and her wild hair is tamed back in a ponytail.

‘Hello, stranger,’ I say, giving her a hug. ‘Sorry for going AWOL.’

Jaz puts down her magazine and smiles uncertainly at me.

‘You’re not coming down with what I had, are you?’ I ask, concerned. ‘You look like you haven’t slept in a week.’ Jaz’s eyes are red-rimmed and her complexion’s pale.

‘I’m OK.’

I can hear Andre scrabbling about inside his box. When Jaz lifts him out I almost gasp aloud: he’s completely naked, no trousers, no hairpiece, no knee-high socks, nothing. I feel like I’ve just walked in on someone on the loo.

‘Are you sure?’ I’m properly worried now – I don’t think I’ve ever seen Andre in his birthday suit before (I’ve seen him in every other conceivable suit).

‘So is it a date?’ Jaz’s eyes are big and blue as she takes in my outfit – I guess I have made an effort, throwing on a figure-skimming grey dress and heels.

‘It’s not a date,’ I say, smoothing down the skirt. ‘I just want to get out of this place for a night, get back to some semblance of normality.’ I sigh. ‘I think I really upset Ruby
yesterday. And Davinia. You haven’t seen either of them, have you?’

Jaz shakes her head. ‘Maddie,’ she begins, hesitant, ‘there’s something I really have to tell you.’

‘If it’s about Nick Craven, I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Actually it’s about me. You see, I’ve done something silly.’

My phone rings. ‘Hang on a sec,’ I tell her, rummaging about in my bag. Nerves flutter as half of me expects it to be Nick. My willingness to hear him out is rapidly dwindling: as far as I’m concerned his silence only confirms his guilt.

‘Shit!’ I say. ‘Why can I never find anything in here?’

It’s Lawrence. A brief conversation establishes he’s already at the restaurant (early) and wants to know what ‘aperitif’ he should order. I’m not sure what an aperitif constitutes, so I go for a G&T. No doubt I’ll turn up and Lawrence will be nursing a seventeen-year-old port. Or maybe a sherry. Last Christmas at his parents’ manor (a pile in the West Country housing twenty King Charles spaniels and several turrets), I drank nearly an entire bottle of Tio Pepe and the next day offered to take the rubbish out and ended up surreptitiously puking into his mother’s basil and thyme rockery. I never told him that.

‘Sorry, Jaz,’ I hang up, ‘what were you saying?’

She looks flustered now, waving me away. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. You go.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, ’course. Let’s talk when you get back.’ She gives me a naughty grin, a shade of the Jaz I know. ‘
If
you come back.’

‘Don’t even joke,’ I tell her, grabbing my bag and dashing upstairs.

Fifteen minutes later I arrive at Chez Sebastien, a little French bistro off Fleet Street. As the taxi pulls up I’m horrified to see a cluster of paparazzi mooching around outside, cameras at their sides, flicking fag ash on the pavement and scuffing their feet, bored. At first I think they must be here for someone else, but then I remember I’m no longer distinct from that wandering troupe of reality-TV-assisted D-list celebrities that Davinia hangs out with on a weekend. I’m one of them. I’ve sold my soul to the devil and the entire world is watching.

As soon as the doors open, they’re on me, swooping to life, hectic as bats. How did they know I was here?

‘Maddie! What can you tell us about Nick Craven?’

‘Why haven’t we seen more of you together? Are you in a relationship? What’s happening between you?’

‘Maddie, what’s it like being part of the UK’s most talked-about couple?’

I fumble through the glare and hurry inside.

To my relief I see Lawrence straight away, nestled in a dimly lit booth at the back. He’s wearing a very smart charcoal suit, and instantly I regret wearing a similar shade of grey: we look like a couple of rats out for a cheese board. I wish I could reignite the spark of desire I had in the early stages of our relationship, when I used to feel butterflies at the thought of seeing him.

Fleetingly I remember Nick. That wasn’t even a spark – it was a full-blown inferno.

‘Mads,’ he stands up and kisses me on both cheeks, ‘you
look gorgeous. Come and sit down.’ He pulls out my chair, but not far enough. I struggle to squeeze into the tiny gap, hoping he’ll notice and put me out of my misery, but he’s too busy scoping out the rest of the diners. Eventually I wedge myself in and pick up the menu, feeling more than fat enough already.

‘Hi,’ I say, deciding that once I get a glass of wine in my hand I’ll feel better, ‘you haven’t been waiting long, have you?’

His smile’s like liquid. ‘I’d wait for ever.’

Talk about a Series of Unappetising Events. ‘This looks nice,’ I say, deciding that it doesn’t matter that I don’t feel with him how I felt with Nick. Nick’s not the person I thought he was, so it’s a waste of time thinking about it.