Dream Machine Page 4

  ‘I was seen!’ I rasp. ‘I had my audition!’

  Jack frowns.

  ‘You did? I thought they said ten minutes—’

  ‘Does this mean we can go now?’ whines Mimi.

  Jack peers at my face and assumes the worst.

  ‘Oh Ella,’ he sighs.

  Ever so gently, like he’s afraid of getting too close, he reaches out and gives my shoulder a pat. In the past he would have hugged me tight and assured me that no matter what anyone else said I would always be his girl.

  ‘I knew this would happen. These set-ups are all about vampirising young women and shaming them for ratings on the telly. That’s why I didn’t want you to do it. I knew you’d get hurt.’

  ‘That’s not it—’ I start to say but Jack’s not listening. Already he’s turned to Mimi and is asking if she’s still feeling sick and if she wants to get some water before we catch the Tube. I tap him on the shoulder impatiently, and he glances at me.

  ‘Ella, I’m sorry. You’ll feel better too, once you’ve had a rest and something to eat . . .’

  At this point the surly woman with the clipboard who’s been standing there listening to us takes exception.

  ‘Hey mister,’ she practically snaps at Jack’s face. ‘You ought to be congratulating, not commiserating! Your daughter’s through to the next round! How about that, eh?’

  Jack stares open-mouthed at the woman like he’s just been told the earth is flat. Then he looks at me and I get this mental image of myself through his eyes and it’s like he’s seeing me again for the first time. I am no longer this pathetic snivelling lost cause but someone talented, important and special. I think of that awful day two years ago when he turned to me in the car and said ‘It’s time to stop, Ella – it’s time you looked for a boyfriend your own age’, and how I agreed because there didn’t seem to be anything else for it, even though inside it felt like my heart had just been shot into hundreds of tiny pieces. I bet he’s regretting that day right now. I bet he’s wondering how he can turn it around and take back what he said to me.

  The woman looks at Mimi with a big put-on smile.

  ‘How great, huh? Your sister must be good!’

  Mimi frowns and squints at me. I expect her to do her usual shtick about me not being her real sister, but instead she shocks me by suddenly throwing her arms around my waist and letting out a blood-curdling scream that virtually breaks the sound barrier. And instead of pushing the little freak off I find myself breaking down all over again, hugging her tightly back and sobbing like a maniac, all the while with Jack staring at me with eyes like a goldfish.

  On the Tube journey back to Kensington he’s all silent. I think how he must be coming to terms with the news – maybe even realising that he loves me after all. He barely even glances at Mimi the whole time, even when she demands we go to Delphi’s for sundaes to celebrate me getting through. Unlike him she can’t shut up. She keeps asking me to repeat over and over what the judges said, and then interrupting to go on about how I’m going to be on TV and how she can’t wait to tell all her friends. Finally she breaks off and just gazes at me, her big blue Barbie-doll eyes all full of wonder, making me blush and for some reason want to start crying again. I wish our relationship was always like this, her admiring me instead of sighing and shouting for Jack every time I so much as borrow her hairbrush. ‘Oh my God!’ she cries as the train pulls in at our stop. ‘I’ve just thought! You could actually make it into Purrfect!’

  ‘She won’t!’ snaps Jack abruptly.

  Mimi gasps and I stare at him, shocked. Jack colours and quickly gives the kind of sheepish grin he always puts on after he loses his temper, which happens hardly ever. But it’s what he says next that cuts right to my soul.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ella. But it’s true. I don’t know how you convinced those judges to pick you, but it was a fluke. You were just lucky and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to continue with this. You’re only going to get hurt and disappointed. There’s no way I’m taking you to that call-back.’

  For a few seconds I can’t breathe. I hear Mimi crying that it’s not fair and that I have to go because it could make me famous, and Jack telling her that it’s for my own good and he knows best, but they both sound far far away, like I’m hearing them underwater. I’m dizzy, the world is spinning, faster and faster. Then everything goes dark.

  It only lasts for a second. Next thing I know Jack’s arms are holding me and he’s carrying me off the train, and Mimi is asking excitedly if she should call an ambulance and beyond her there’s the roar of the train as it takes off out the platform. Jack tells Mimi no, and lays me down on a bench. Curious faces of other travellers peer down at me from all sides, going in and out of focus.

  ‘Is she okay?’ an American woman is saying. ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘She’s fine, she just fainted,’ Jack assures her. ‘Could everyone just give her some space, please?’

  But I can hear a note of panic in his voice. It’s like he doesn’t want all these people around to be concerned about me. As the world begins to settle back into focus I take in Jack’s face hovering above, all pale and drawn, and suddenly I realise something. He can’t handle it. He can’t deal with the idea of me being special, of other people admiring me and believing in me. He needs to think that I’m a lost cause so he can tell himself he was right to end it between us. With a grunt of effort I push myself up, trying to ignore the lurching feeling this movement gives me.

  ‘Take deep, slow breaths,’ the American advises.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I pant. ‘And I’m going to that call-back.’

  Jack glances at the people around me and does his sheepish grin.

  ‘We’ll talk about it at home.’

  When we get back Rita is at the kitchen table looking harassed, a cluster of half-empty coffee mugs and lots and lots of glossy photo articles spread out before her. It’s cataloguing for the next edition of Fascinate! She’s wearing her glasses, which is a sure sign that you don’t want to disturb her if you know what’s good for you, unless of course you’re Mummy’s little girl who can’t do a thing wrong. Mimi rushes right over and tugs at her arm.

  ‘Mum, Ella got through!’

  Rita turns, her face all contorted with stress. She gives Mimi a pained smile.

  ‘That’s nice, darling. Mummy’s busy right now, why don’t you run along?’ Then she frowns and her eyes dart at me suspiciously. ‘Got through to what?’

  ‘The audition,’ I say. ‘I made it to the next round.’

  Rita looks from me to Jack like she has no idea what I’m talking about.

  ‘That girl band thing,’ he reminds her. ‘They picked her.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Rita vaguely. ‘Well done, Ella.’

  She nods at us like she’s dismissing us and starts studying the glossies again. Jack clears his throat. Rita’s head snaps up again, this time annoyance is written all over her face in big red letters. I can’t help but wonder what Jack ever saw in her. I know he doesn’t love her now, and she just tolerates him because he takes care of us, but they must have liked each other at some stage just to have started dating in the first place.

  ‘What is it?’ she says in a voice that threatens to erupt like a volcano.

  Jack looks at us.

  ‘Girls, could you give us a moment?’

  I realise he is going to persuade Rita to forbid me to go. She always does what he says when it comes to us. She can’t be bothered to take any interest herself, so she just lets him get on with it and okays his decisions like a lazy dictator.

  ‘I have to go to that call-back!’ I shout.

  Rita stares coldly at me. I feel the tears forming once again.

  ‘Girls – out,’ she orders, and of course we do just what she tells us, legs working automatically like robots. I head for my room, close the door and throw myself down on the bed, burying my head in my pillow where I start weeping with anger and frustration. After a while I roll over and look at m
y animals. I know it’s stupid for a seventeen-year-old to still care about her cuddly toys, but I can’t help it. Teddy-O, Andy Panda and Snakey have always been my truest friends. They’ve never made catty remarks like the girls do at school, or ignored me like Rita does, or simply abandoned me like Jack. I’ve had them since I was a little girl and I can’t imagine what my life would be like if they weren’t there for me. ‘It’s not fair,’ I whisper to Andy Panda. His little black-and-white face shines with sympathy and I pick him up and snuggle down with him, shutting my eyes. They sting like mad so I open them again. It’s because of all the crying. It’s bad for your complexion too. I haven’t cried so much since Daddy died.

  ‘Ella? Can I come in?’

  It’s Mimi, poking her head round the door. Ordinarily I would be shocked by the mere sight of her in my room, not to mention the fact that she’s gone to the trouble of asking if she can enter it, but I’m too depressed to care. She comes over, practically on tiptoe like she’s scared of upsetting me now I’m this fully blown diva, and sits down at the end of the bed.

  ‘I think it’s mean of him not to let you go,’ she pouts. ‘I’m going to tell him he has to. He’ll listen to me.’

  I study Mimi’s face, full of belief in herself and her power over Jack, familiar feelings of jealousy welling up inside me. But I’m also struck by how incredibly different we are. Where does her self-confidence come from? I’ve never had it, not even when Jack belonged to me. Is it because she thinks the world revolves around her that it does? I try to imagine Mimi in Jack’s arms, him whispering loving things to her about how special and important she is, how she’s his little girl, but I just can’t see it somehow. Mimi would be laughing or squealing for him to stop, or else describing some pair of roller boots she’s seen and wants him to buy for her. What Jack and I had was too special for him to be able to find it with Mimi. He’s mine, only mine. He’s just forgotten how much he needs me, that’s all.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I can fight my own battles.’

  I surprise myself with this one, and Mimi looks put out, like the idea never even occurred to her. But I think to myself that it’s true. I don’t need Mimi’s help. And I don’t need Rita’s permission to go to the call-back, or Jack’s either. They liked me in that room, those three judges. They said I had a lovely voice and a sweet personality, that I was charming and cute. They made me feel like I really had something to offer, and to offer what I’ve got I don’t need anyone’s permission but my own.

  ‘What I’ve always wanted to do is to sing. I grew up listening to Aretha Franklin, Annie Lennox and Kate Bush. Tracy Chapman’s my idol. You see, I’m not just some stripper. I’m a somebody!’

  Had this punter at the club last night who kept on asking me these questions while I was giving him a private. One of those weirdos who insist on chit-chat stead of just concentrating on the business. Not that it bothers me, so long as he pays up – I’ll give him my whole life story if that’s what he wants. So I tell this guy a bit about myself while I’m giving him the moves, and eventually I get on to how I like to sing. Then I mention about how I’m going down to audition for this gig and that I’m really excited about it, and suddenly the stupid wanker bursts out laughing like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Well good luck to you! he gasps when he’s finally done creasing himself, cos I hate to tell you this but there’s a big difference between taking your clothes off and being a proper star, love. And I can’t come back at him cos he’s slipping a twenty into my G, but what I really want to say is Oh yeah, and what do you reckon that is then, Mr Genius? And I’d be genuinely interested to know his answer. Cos the more I think about it the less of a difference I can see between what I do and what those girls from Purrfect do. Apart from the fact they make shitloads more money, that is. Those girls, that Saffron and Fina and Kharris and Monique or whatever her name is, what they do is they go on stage, mime a few words and shake their bits around while men all over the country get hard-ons watching them on the telly. It’s just another form of prick-teasing.

  So here I am at the call-back, standing in line with forty or so other girls, all waiting to go into the pop boutique to see the so-called image consultants and get revamped for this afternoon’s second round of auditions. Up ahead the camera crew are getting girls to turn round in front of a blue screen so they can do before and after shots. Some of these girls, they come out looking exactly the same as when they went in, plus maybe a few hair extensions. There’s a couple of real sad cases who come out looking halfway decent I s’pose. Be interesting to see what they have to say to me. I’ve dressed like a hooker for the occasion, boobs out, legs showing up to the arse, leather goods and big gold accessories. Gotta make this stripping gig work in my favour. I knew when I met the judges that if I could make myself over as this sexpot with a shady past that only wanted a chance to make a proper go of it, then they’d want me. Seen enough of these reality pop shows to know that’s what they’re looking for. It’s not just about finding some pop star to replace that silly bitch that didn’t know a good thing when it was going for her, it’s about making telly that keeps people from flipping the channel. They want tears and they want flesh. They want a singing Cinderella from the ghetto, and I’ll give it to ’em and then some if they’ll only let me. Won’t make it through to Purrfect of course, there’s not much chance of that happening. But it’ll get my face out there. A foot in the door. And that’s what you need in this business.

  I have a look up and down the line, inspecting the competition. I’m probably the only girl here that’s not surrounded by family or friends. It took Eddy a long time to come round to the fact that I was doing this. A right fucking long time. But when she saw I wasn’t backing down she let it rest. Then she even offered to come. Told her no way. There’s nothing so sure to jeopardise your chances as a chain-smoking dyke with a buzz cut and a tattoo of a flaming skull on her neck. But now that I’m here I’m feeling kind of lonesome. I’m kind of wishing I’d let her tag along after all.

  As I look back at all the parents and boyfriends I suddenly notice something that’s so fucking obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it already, seeing as normally it’s the first thing I’m aware of when I walk into a room. But I’m not with it today, cos of trying to remember my lyrics and to repress the fucker of a headache I’ve got buried somewhere deep in the back of my brain. What I notice now is that I’m the only black girl. I mean properly black. There’s a few caramel colours, but no other real proper blacks, and I stand out like a Christie doll in a row of Barbies. Maybe I can make this work for me as well as the stripper gig. I look up and see I’m at the front of the queue.

  Hi there, says this grey-haired geezer holding a sound boom, could you state your name and then give us a twirl in front of the screen?

  Out of habit I size him up, taking in the wedding ring and the big purple circles under his eyes. Married with no sex life is my verdict. Sort that’s usually in tears by the time you’ve finished giving them a private, that only ever splash out on clubs like mine to get a bit of sympathy and material for future wanks. I give him my earth-mother/sexpot smile.

  Hi, I’m Riana, I say.

  I turn to the dude holding the camera, whose face is hidden behind it so I can’t give him the once-over too, and do a quick spin, balancing on the ball of my foot and raising my other leg up over my shoulder so everyone watching gets a good gawp at my lacy pink knickers. Didn’t go for a thong in the end, thought it would be too much. There’s this gasp of disapproval from the parents of some size zero anorexic that’s next in line, but the sound geezer’s face perks right up and the dude with the camera peeks round his equipment to check it’s for real. He’s like the sound geezer’s identical twin. Pity they’re not the judges. If they were I’d be stretch-limoing my way to the bank already.

  This chubby woman at the entrance to the pop boutique calls for me to hurry it along, so I flash them some more teeth and let the anorexic take my place while
I follow this woman inside. There’s two more camera dudes in here, and several movie-star style dressing tables with the lights all round the mirrors and girls sitting at them being made over by other chubby women, all with these long faces of serious concentration. At the back of the room are rows and rows of clothing racks, frocks galore. My own chubby woman looks me up and down, nodding slowly, and I can practically read the word Tart in one of those think bubbles above her head. She pats the seat in front of her mirror and gives me a smile.

  My name’s Alice, she says slowly in this bright voice, like she’s talking to someone very, very stupid. Right then. . .

  I take a seat and she puts her hands on either side of my head and stares hard at my reflection, like she’s going to telepathically channel a new image on top of me just like that. One of the camera dudes moves in on us, and Alice breaks off from staring to dart this quick look at it.

  Well, you’ve got quite dark skin, she says, smiling all nervous like she’s worried that maybe she’s being unPC stating the fuck-off obvious, which means you can get away with bright colours. You’re lucky.

  She starts holding up different colours of eye shadow and testing them against my face, pointing out the pros and cons of Electric Blue as opposed to Neon Rose Pink. I nod, like I’m taking this advice very seriously indeed, though at twenty-three I think I’m pretty much an expert in what colours suit me, thank you very much. It’s quite boring, to be honest, listening to her drone on, and once the camera dude moves off I can’t be bothered to keep up the act so I just let her get on with it, chatting away to herself, and let my eyes drift up to this poster of Purrfect on the wall behind the mirror. It’s a magazine spread of them as a foursome, all in school uniform, ripped tights and shirts tied in knots above the waist, hair in pigtails, plaits and ponytails. The stuff of sex fantasies, no question about it.

  I’ve been studying up on Purrfect – that’s to say I’ve read their bios on Wikipedia – and the truth is I don’t think much of them. In fact, more than ever do I reckon they’re nothing but a bunch of bimbos who struck it lucky. Most of their music’s got a decent beat to it, and a couple of their songs are all right for stripping to, but that’s as far as it goes. They’re just another one of those manufactured pop groups. I like my music a bit more edgy and a fucking lot more honest. Course, that’s not what I said to the bitch with the face like a troll on the panel last week. Told her how much I admired their unique sound and beautiful voices, like any of them have got something worth mentioning. Even pulled the old salty eye trick and said that one of their songs, ‘Never Forget’, reminded me of my mum, which is enough to get the old lady choking in her grave. I can just see her looking down and shaking her old head, going I didn’t work my arse off putting you through school for this, girl! Mind you, it’s not like she would have approved of what I do now either. Sorry, Mum, but you always said you gotta pull some dirty tricks to get ahead in this game. At least Purrfect don’t seem to take themselves too seriously. Not that they have to, what with that troll-faced bint doing the job for the lot of them.