Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (41 page)

‘No, sorry.’ Someone bumps into me from behind and drifts off without apology. Bollocks – actually I haven’t seen Evan at all. I vowed to keep an eye on him and I’ve only gone and lost him already.

‘He’s ignoring me.’ Alison pouts. ‘He’s been acting like a prick ever since that thing blew up between Jaz and Simon. Like it was my birthday yesterday and he forgot because he had to take his cat to the vet. Apparently! He doesn’t even own a cat.’

‘Oh! Happy birthday!’ I congratulate her miserable face. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Maybe he just bought a cat …?’ I hazard, when what I really want to do is ask why on earth she cares about such a
despicable person. I can’t bear to tell Alison about Evan’s other conquests, however many there are. I only hope I’m not forced to later.

‘He hates cats,’ she says grudgingly. ‘He couldn’t even be bothered to lie convincingly.’

‘Makes a change,’ I grumble.

She doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘It’s because his wife’s here,’ she decides bitterly. ‘I’m sick of it. He’s told me countless times that they’re only together for practical reasons – financial stuff, you know – and he doesn’t love her any more. He’s
always
telling me how he “can’t stand one more minute”. So why can’t he get out? It’s not like they have kids or anything.’

‘Where is she?’ I ask, curious despite myself.

Alison nods in the direction of the stage. By the central steps is an alarmingly short, round woman with cropped dark hair.

‘She looks like Danny DeVito!’

‘Not her!’ Alison hisses. ‘The blonde sucking a lemon.’

Alongside the shorter one is an extremely tall, thin, unhappy-looking woman in a minuscule white dress. Together they look like the aunts in
James and the Giant Peach
. It’s hard to tell how old she is through all the plastic surgery – her mouth is more of a beak and the skin on her face is stretched to the edges like a trampoline. Skeletal legs protrude from a weeny skirt, thin and knobbly like Nik Naks. My guess is she hasn’t smiled in about six years.

Toby joins us. ‘Poor Mrs Bergman,’ he observes, pushing the glasses on the bridge of his nose. ‘I feel for her.’

‘She looks like a bitch,’ says Alison – quite harshly, in my view, given she’s the one shagging the bitch’s husband.

‘Clearly she’s not happy,’ points out Toby, rather more fairly. ‘Would you be?’

‘Going to bed with Evan every night?’ I splutter. ‘Hardly!’ Then I realise what a stupid insensitive thing that was to say.

Toby seems undeterred. ‘Probably why she’s had all that work done,’ he suggests. ‘It can’t be easy being married to a serial cheat, feeling you have to keep up with all the younger, prettier models.’ It’s the first time I’ve seen Toby express anything except deference to Evan. He’s normally so mild-mannered.

‘I’ve got to find him,’ breathes Alison, moving off.

‘I’ve been trying to warn her,’ Toby tells me solemnly. ‘Evan doesn’t care, he never did – he only cares about himself.’ And he trails slightly pathetically after her, eyes searching the crowd through the thick frames of his glasses.

I spot the man himself almost as soon as they’re gone, holding fort by the hot dogs (why didn’t I think of that?), the gleam of sweat on his forehead and cheeks catching the sickly light. He’s chatting to cameras, back-slapping someone with enthusiasm and taking huge, snarling bites from his bap like something feral that hasn’t eaten in a week. Everything Loaf told me rushes back and a swell of anger rinses through my stomach. How can Evan carry on like he hasn’t a care in the world? Like he hasn’t ruined the career of a good, decent man, and isn’t trying to ruin my parents, me and my friends – not to mention Alison! I ball my fists. Maybe I should follow Simon’s advice. Maybe I shouldn’t just wait to defend myself; maybe I should attack him first. What I wouldn’t give to have the balls to get up on that stage, seize one of those microphones and tell everyone here – including his wife – just what he’s been …

The man having his back slapped by Evan looks up and spies me. Oh, crap. It’s Chester Bendwell. Evan’s dead gaze follows his and when his eyes meet mine, a chill travels down my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and burn.

In seconds (literally – he’s wearing those trainers again) Chester’s at my side, closely followed by his crew and their hulking great cameras. ‘Maddie!
Fabulous
to see you!’

‘You too.’ I’m like a rabbit in headlights, one half of my brain on Evan and his proximity to the stage; the other on Carl, wherever he may be – and none whatsoever on Chester.

‘Bet you hardly recognise Pineapple these days!’ he exclaims wildly. A tiny piece of pink candyfloss is clinging wetly to his top lip. I say a few words in response, trying not to be put off by the features floating mere inches away, the bugging eyes and the commas of perspiration each side of his nostrils.

‘And the Jaz and Alex romance?’ he demands hungrily, dazzling me with a wall of bright white teeth – seriously, could he come any closer without actually
kissing
me? ‘Can you tell us what’s happening? We’re dying to know. She got rid of Simon pretty fast, didn’t she? Is he back with Lou? Or is she still mad? She must be seething!’ He crows with laughter. ‘
I
would be. But never mind what I think! Tell us what you think, babe.’
Babe?
‘HAHAHA. What can you tell us about that, Maddie?’ Chester sniffs hard. Bets in for how many lines he’s just done in the loo.

‘It’s OK, we’re all friends again,’ I say, snatching the chance to pour water on the fire Evan’s been so eager to fan. So what if people think I’m boring – they can decide for themselves
what the truth is. It makes no difference whether I’m honest or not.

While Chester’s babbling on, I steal a glance at the bar. Jaz has joined the others; Simon is working next to her and checking out every customer she serves. I’m glad she told him about Carl. It doesn’t forgive what happened, but I think it helps explains it in part. She’s been through a lot and it’s messed with her head – but who’s perfect? I’m not, that’s for sure. Simon’s wise enough to know that he isn’t, either. And that he and Jaz have a great friendship that can, and will, survive a few seconds of stupidity.

‘Maddie?’ Chester brings me back to him with a warm, slightly sour gust of breath.

‘Oh, sorry. What?’

We’re distracted by an almighty screech on one of the microphones. Desperate, I crane to see over Chester’s head, my heart galloping into my throat. The world turns in slow motion, the waves of the crowd seeming to part to pave my way through, luring me on to that stage, showing me what I have to do; that I must stand up in front of these hundreds of people and do what’s right, I must challenge the man who’s preparing to thwart me—

But it’s just the karaoke starting, thank god. (Two months ago you’d have had to put a loaded gun to my head to hear me say that.)

And where is Lawrence, anyway? I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s not coming, after all. Maybe Nick was wrong. And Loaf. Maybe it’s all going to be OK. Maybe.

Someone from
Big Brother
five years ago spouts ten seconds of tripe into the mic about Pineapple Mist being Pineapple
‘missed’ (get it? Yikes), before the intro to ‘What You Do (Ooh Ooh)’ kicks in and the room screams and yelps in excitement as if they’ve never heard the song before. Chester seems to sniff at the air and pursues this fresh action like a pig snuffling truffles.

I’m just pondering Chester’s lack of manners when I realise I’m not alone. Well, obviously I’m not alone, I’m in a room full of people, but I sense someone loitering behind me, stealthy as a cloaked assassin. I smell him before I see him – that nutty, slightly menacing aftershave – and his bulk just that fraction too close for comfort. Evan’s fleshy arm clamps tight round my shoulders and pulls me close.

‘Having fun?’ he growls.

My first thought is, Phew, I know where he is. We might hate each other’s guts but if I can just keep him distracted …

‘Let’s get a drink,’ I say as pleasantly as I can.

But he’s already on the move, tugging me along with him, pushing through the crowd, stretching his wide neck, searching for someone. Moments later I’m jerked to a halt.

‘Nick, here’s Maddie.’

And with that, I’m deposited with all the grace of a bag of shopping. Evan shoots off, swallowed by the masses as quickly as they spat him out. Nick looks just as bewildered as me. The people he’s chatting with – two silky-haired women, I can’t help but notice, with long legs and spiky heels – grudgingly melt away.

‘Hi,’ he says uncertainly.

‘Hi.’

‘You look lovely.’

‘Thanks.’ I keep my chin up, determined to be civil. ‘I’d best get on—’

Nick grabs my elbow, peering over my shoulder, checking for the all-clear.

‘Ow!’

‘You’ve got to listen to me,’ he commands, steering me into a corner.

I attempt to shake myself free, but he’s too strong. ‘Get off!’

‘Give me a minute, all right? I wouldn’t do this unless it was important.’

‘Nick, don’t, I’m not interested. Take your hands off me.’

‘Maddie, you have to—’

‘
Now!
’ I jerk out of his clasp.

‘If you’d just let me finish!’ he hisses, backing me up against the wall. ‘For fuck’s sake, would you hear me out for once in your life? Can’t you see I’m trying to
help you
?’

His face is inches from mine. I fight the sudden desire to kiss him. ‘Go on then,’ I say instead. ‘Make it quick.’

‘Evan wants you distracted, that’s why he’s brought you over. To talk to me.’

‘Distracted?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re sure you’ve got nothing to do with this? No cameras planning to show up any time soon?’

‘For god’s sake, I’m serious. Evan’s about to—’ He clams up. There’s a blinking red light flickering close by.

I nearly burst out laughing at the predictability of it.

‘What?’ I demand. ‘He’s about to what?’

But it’s too late.

A dreadful quiet descends on the crowd. Over Nick’s shoulder I can see the stage, and on it a ghastly wiry-haired silhouette lit from behind, like the creature you think you see at your bedroom door when you’re five and you wake up from a nightmare.

Oh no.

Oh
no
.

Evan’s fat hands take one of the gleaming mics. I see him lick his lips, think I
hear
it, all that wet tongue and saliva. He takes his time, relishing the undivided attention.

He was desperate … to be famous, to perform …

Slowly Nick turns to face the stage as well. As he moves I catch sight of Jaz at the bar, and Simon, and Ruby. And I know what they’re thinking: now’s your chance, they’re willing me – get up there now, before he says something, before he has the chance …

Do it now
, a little voice instructs me.
Do it now while there’s still time
.

I can’t. I can’t
.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ Evan starts, like some horrifying travelling clown, ‘I wish to take this opportunity to say a few words about the show. And what a show it’s been!’ There’s a smattering of enthusiastic applause. ‘
Blast from the Past
has been a wonderful project for me – I think everyone here will agree it’s been a roaring success. To Pineapple!’

Everyone raises their glass/bottle/sausage roll. Perhaps that’s it. He might stop there.

Perhaps not.

‘But all good things must come to an end.’ The quiet settles once again. Evan savours the moment, shakes his head
sadly, inevitably. ‘And on this occasion, I’m afraid that means more than just the series …’

The entire crowd is mesmerised, hanging on to his every word. He lets us wait, the consummate showman, before a gruff sound escapes his throat and he loosens the knot on his tie. I’m transfixed, rooted to the spot, unable to move.

‘Anyone who knows me,’ Evan booms, ‘knows I am a man of integrity. And for that reason I am obliged to be honest with the people who have made me who I am today. That’s you.’ A nod to the mob, then the same to each camera in turn, taking his time, not rushing a thing. ‘And I cannot let this show wrap without being completely truthful about what you’ve witnessed.’ He shifts his weight, the head of the mic cradled in his palms like a precious gem.

‘Now, I understand how reality TV works, it’s my game,’ he says. ‘I understand how it becomes a family member, a best friend, a confidante; someone to share the highs and the lows; a strange, exciting, unpredictable – and yet absolutely reliable – creature that straddles both public and private, that generates gossip in the pub as much as it eases those lonely nights in. Believe me, as the show’s producer – as
your
producer, I prefer to think – I appreciate the beauty of reality television more than anyone.’

Jaz is frowning at me. She’s mouthing something but I can’t make it out. Simon and Alex are making odd jerky movements with their heads, like,
Go on, you’re up; it’s now or never
.

But I can’t. Now I’m here and it’s happening, I can’t bring myself to. I start to shake. A cold wash hits and falls down the entire length of my body, like someone’s thrown a bucket of icy water over my head.