Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (7 page)

‘Hey!’ she says as I pour myself a Coke. ‘Check this out.’ She holds up a large piece of cardboard bearing a badly drawn portrait of what I think is meant to be Andre the guinea pig. She’s even used gold pen round the edge for a frame. ‘I thought we could have these dotted around,’ she suggests, ‘like those head shots at the hairdresser’s. It’ll be really unusual – and Andre’s got more than enough styles to carry it off.’

The guinea pig himself scuffles across the table, nose twitching as he inspects his portrait, fussy as a connoisseur. He’s donning a silk waistcoat and socks. Honestly, what’s the point of bothering with a waistcoat if you’re not even wearing pants?

‘Um,’ I say, fiddling with the hem of my denim dress. ‘Well, the thing is—’

‘Now pay attention, Maddie,’ says Ruby, tweezing out a stray false eyelash. ‘Archie’s got some fantastic concepts for the new drinks menu.’ She leans across the back of the booth like a large cat. ‘Archie, take it away!’

Archie clears his throat as he produces his own piece of paper, self-consciously showing his efforts. ‘Well, I ain’t much of an artist …’

Unfortunately I have to agree. The concoctions he’s outlined, together with illustrations, are more round-the-bend than on-trend. One of them looks like an elaborate prawn cocktail, things sticking violently out of it at all angles,
coloured coral-pink – it could be, for all I can tell. As soon as I see the words ‘Singapore Sing’ I know we’re in deep trouble.

‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ crows Ruby. Archie looks pleased.

‘Obviously these are just rough,’ Jaz cuts in. ‘I was thinking we could design a billboard, put it up outside, all lit up. Y’know, make a feature of it.’

Ruby nods happily. ‘And you should see what Simon’s put together for the playlists …’

I zone out, letting their proposals wash over me like a great big wave of doom. Andre is looking at me. The guinea pig knows the score. He can see the guilt in my eyes.

And then, in a moment of utter clarity, the first I’ve had in days, Andre scratches his miniature socks on the table and shuffles backwards, his bare bum wiggling. Crouching over the papers, never once taking his eyes from mine, he does a neat little poo right in the middle of the plans. That’s it – I’ve got to come clean.

‘We can’t afford it, guys.’

The three of them turn to look at me. There’s this awful silence I have to fill, so I jabber on. ‘I thought I could raise the cash, but it turns out I can’t. It’s going to be much more expensive than I thought. I’m sorry. Really.’ I bow my head. ‘The plan’s off.’

For a minute nobody says anything. Jaz throws her pen down and darts up from the table, rushing past me. I can’t blame her – I’d probably be pissed off at me as well.

Ruby gets up and puts an arm round me. ‘Oh, sweetie. It doesn’t matter …’

A copy of
Spotlight
magazine – the weekly West End theatre journal to which Jaz subscribes – is thrust under my
nose. ‘I wasn’t going to show you this,’ she says, breathless, ‘but whatever. If we need help, this might be our only chance.’

I frown. Jaz has circled an ad in the classified section in thick red pen.

‘What is this?’ I ask. Archie and Ruby come to peer over my shoulder.

Jaz can barely contain her excitement. ‘Just read it!’

I take a deep breath and scan the words:

ATTENTION ALL LONDON BARS
AND CLUBS!!!

A
RE YOU STRUGGLING TO MAKE ENDS MEET
?
D
O YOU WISH THERE WAS A FAST, EASY WAY
TO MAKE MONEY AND GET BACK ON TOP
?

I look up at Jaz. ‘Yes,’ I say.

She nods frantically. ‘Read on! Read on!’

T
OOTH
& N
AIL
TV
IS LOOKING FOR THE
UK’
S
NEXT BIG REALITY
TV
SENSATION
.

D
ON’T ATTRACT HUNDREDS AT THE WEEKEND –
ATTRACT
MILLIONS.

D
ON’T DELAY
. C
ALL
020 078910

There’s a brief pause while everyone digests this. It’s the sort of high-strung, energised pause you get in films before something major is about to happen. Everyone’s eyes are on me.

‘Reality TV?’ I look at Archie, then at Ruby, then at Jaz.

‘Whatever that means,’ says Archie, grabbing the mag
and inspecting it. Seconds later Ruby whips it from him, only to have it snatched off her by Jaz. Then it’s thrust back at me.

‘So?’ says Jaz excitedly. ‘What do you think?’

I read the ad again, then once more. I’m not sure what I think.

Three pairs of eyes are gazing at me: expectant, waiting, full of hope. What I do know is I can’t let them down.

‘I think it’s worth a shot,’ I say, beaming. ‘What have we got to lose?’

The sun is shining as I make my way down Bond Street on Monday morning, feeling like Melanie Griffiths in
Working Girl
. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt and a pretty sleeveless top, hopefully striking a balance between I Mean Business and Please Don’t Ask Me Too Many Questions About Capital Pools. I even dared to raid Mum’s jewellery box this morning and found a really cute vintage brooch.

Outside the tube station I double-check the address Evan Bergman’s assistant gave me over the phone. Crossing the road, I head down an alley past a health food store.

A gentle breeze is blowing and it feels like summer: I
hope this is a friendly omen – to be honest I’m not quite sure what possessed me to do this. Reality TV? Hmm. I’m not the biggest fan. OK, I am partial to my autumn fix of
The X Factor
– but that’s not
actual
reality TV, it’s a proper competition that just happens to be on camera. Like
I’m a Celebrity
. And
Strictly Come Dancing
. And
Masterchef
. Oh, and
Britain’s Got Talent
. Anyway, forget that. My point is that it’s very different watching it than, well, being it. And yet here I am on the way to meet some hotshot telly producer about potentially starring in my own show. What on earth am I doing?

But this could be the only option Sing It Back has. I have to at least give it a chance.

A bit of a walk later and my feet are starting to hurt – I knew I should have changed into these heels when I got here – but then I spot a building that I think
must
be it. It’s a modest four-storey townhouse with a white portico, sort of smart and shabby-looking at the same time. It just looks so … media.

Sure enough, there’s a gold panel to the left of the door which reads
TOOTH
&
NAIL PRODUCTIONS
. I press the buzzer.

A gravelly voice comes over the intercom and spits out ‘Tooth & Nail’ in a way that makes it sound like the name of a teen slasher movie.

‘Er, hi,’ I say, leaning in. ‘I’ve an appointment with Evan Bergman. Eleven o’clock.’

‘Second floor.’

The door clicks open and I step inside. The hall is a vast white empty space, a black cast-iron spiral staircase winding up
its middle, precise as a corkscrew. I ascend nearly on tiptoes, the points of my heels threatening to disappear through the ornate grill.

On the second floor a striking brunette is sitting behind reception, cradling a phone to her ear. She’s wearing skinny jeans and biker boots, one of which is propped up on the desk. On her T-shirt there’s a name tag with a handwritten
ALISON
scrawled across it in black felt tip. She shoots me a jagged look and gestures for me to sit on one of the leather banquettes.

I pretend to flick through a magazine. It’s one of those trendy A3 ones consisting entirely of pictures of models wearing bin bags and looking cross. I search in vain for
OK!
.

Alison is nodding and
hmm
ing. When she hangs up she regards me stonily, her eyebrow raised. Clearly not one for talking, then.

‘I’m here for Evan Bergman,’ I say. ‘I spoke to someone downstairs, but I’m not sure who. One of your security guys, he was quite gruff—’

‘Actually that was me,’ she growls. It’s like the girl in
The Exorcist
. I must look alarmed because she adds, ‘I’m sick. My throat’s killing me.’

She doesn’t look all that pleased to be here. ‘Maybe you should go home?’ I suggest.

Instead she grimaces. ‘Boss won’t let me.’ The last bit catches and then she’s coughing in harsh, hacking bursts till she’s so red in the face I have to go and pat her on the back. I’m half worried she’s going to projectile spew green stuff all down my outfit.

‘Thanks,’ she snarls. ‘Bloody cold.’

‘I’m sure he’d understand. You seem really poorly …’

Alison shakes her head and glances over her shoulder, presumably to check she’s not being overheard. At the end of the corridor is a pair of sliding frosted doors.

‘You seem nice,’ she whispers hoarsely, ‘so off the record, let’s just say Evan’s not the easiest person to work for.’

‘I’ve never met him.’

Her phone rings and she picks it up. ‘Yes?’ She looks at me and gives a curt nod. ‘Yes, she’s here.’ Cough, cough. ‘I’ll send her in.’

Alison hangs up. ‘You’re about to.’

Evan Bergman is standing at the window with his back to me. He’s holding his hands together behind him in the stance of a powerful man surveying his empire – even though the view out his office window is the back of a Burger King car park. Only when he hears the door go does he turn round and extend his hand.

‘Maddie Mulhern,’ he says, and his voice is smooth as silk, ‘welcome. I’m Evan Bergman, Head of Production at Tooth & Nail. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.’

The first thing I notice is his hair, which is an unnatural shade of purple-y black and sort of two-tiered, like a springy muffin. It seems to be slipping off the back of his head. I wonder if it’s all real. His face is flat and wide and tanned like leather.

‘Hello,’ I say, trying not to take an instant dislike to him. When I shake his hand it feels soft and cool like raw dough.

Evan smiles at me with crocodile eyes. ‘Please, sit down.’

His office is decked out in much the same way as the rest of the building, an exercise in black-and-white minimalism. His own desk and the chair I’m sitting on are made of Perspex, totally see-through, and the implied exposure makes me uncomfortable. The walls are covered in moody shots of New York and I search for a clue to this man’s personality – a photo of his wife, child, Rottweiler (for I feel sure if he had a dog, this would be it) – but there’s nothing.

Evan’s own chair is plush leather. When he sits down it squeaks under his weight.

‘Coffee?’ he asks.

‘No, thanks.’

Another smile. His teeth are capped and pearly white. ‘I’m very happy you got in touch, Maddie. You don’t mind if I call you that … do you?’

I shake my head.

‘As you can imagine we’ve had a flood of applicants since we placed the ad. Let me assure you, this isn’t an opportunity that comes along twice.’