Dream Machine Page 6

  I start whimpering thank yous at her. I’m practically ready to tongue the gorgeous miserable cow. She rolls her eyes like she’s never seen such a tard and pushes past me. But I don’t care. I’m back in the game and that’s all that matters. The song I was gonna do is ‘Genie in a Bottle’. Been practising it all week. There’ll definitely be some other girl who’s picked it too.

  My heart racing like a fucking rollercoaster, I turn back to Ella at the same time as this tall black girl with a hairdo like Tina Turner barges into her, nearly knocking the skinny scrap of nerves flat on her face. Ella lets out the sort of noise a kitten might make if you booted it across the room and starts groping around blindly at the air. I catch her arms and pull her back to her feet.

  Oi slag, watch where you’re going! I shout after the black bitch.

  She turns to face me showing lots of straight white teeth. Got a smile like a light bulb, this one. But her eyes are all wide and glistening too and she’s got these tiny little shakes, so small you’d think she was just bored if you didn’t know the signs. Straight away I can see she’s fucked on something. You can always tell from the eyes. Unbelievable. Me ex-manager from when I used to work at The Garter, back before they fired me for drinking on duty, was a right druggy – all he did was pull pints and sniff lines. Used to be a bit partial to them meself, before Baby come along. Since I had him I try to only do sniff and pills on special occasions. You got to act responsible once you’re a mum.

  Sorry, sister! laughs this girl and dives back into the crowd.

  What was that? says Ella, like she’s just woken up.

  I take her hand, since she’s looking around all confused like she don’t know the difference between an arse and a tit, and pull her with me into the queue by the door. You got to wonder where she even got the idea of coming to a place like this. I look round for Mum but can’t see her. Probably on her tenth fag by now and flirting with the security on the door. Well, good. Hopefully they’ll lock her out of the theatre.

  Listen, I says to Ella, what song you doing?

  Ella frowns then gives me this little hopeful smile.

  ‘Petrified’ by Cindy Shaw.

  Bollocks, I think, cos I’ve never even heard of it. But looking at Ella it seems like it’s a pretty fitting song, since petrified is the only way to describe how she looks. I try to think of other songs I know in case no one’s doing ‘Genie in a Bottle’. That fucking Wend!

  Oh my God, I’m so nervous, goes Ella for the millionth time, like maybe I’d forgot cos she hadn’t reminded me for a whole ten seconds, I feel like . . . maybe I’m going to be sick!

  Don’t you dare, I snap at her. She shuts her mouth and her chin wobbles like she’s just been slapped.

  Look, I say, feeling a bit bad, just close your eyes and imagine someone who you want to see you on telly. Someone you want to feel proud of you. Or else someone you hate who you want to prove you’re better than.

  Ella’s eyes grow all huge for a minute, like she can’t believe what an amazing idea this is. Then she shuts them all tightly and scrunches up her face. Since there’s still no sign of Mum I figure I may as well give it a go meself, and so I close me eyes and try to imagine Baby a bit older, seeing his mum singing in Purrfect on T4 with this crowd screaming and cheering all around me. But instead I find meself imagining Gav, Baby’s dad. I’m seeing him all poor and down to his last Mayfair in some crappy run-down shithole, turning on the telly and suddenly seeing me on it, all sexy and glamorous. I’m picturing his face as he realises what a stupid bastard he’s been. There’s this big close-up of me doing a solo looking like a supermodel, and these actual tears are sliding their way down Gav’s cheeks, for being dumb enough to let me go. Course it’s nothing but a nice fantasy. Pricks like Gav, they don’t even know how to cry.

  The fact is I’ve no idea where Gav is or what he’s up to now. Could be dead for all I know, though that’s some kind of wish. Bastard took off right before Baby was born. There I was, preggers like a fucking mountain and about to go pop with no one but me mum to stand there and listen to me screaming me head off as he come out. Don’t talk about pain to me – I had me heart broken same time as I pushed a baby out me twat. Nothing Davy could ever do is ever gonna match Gav. Owes hundreds in child support as well. Meanwhile poor old Baby’s just another kid on an estate with some heartless fuckwit that don’t give a shit for a father. Somehow it don’t seem fair how some kids get born into families that are together and well off, like this fragile thing stood here next to me, while some just get stuck with no dad and no money like Baby. Guess it’s the fault of slappers like me, for opening our legs without protection. Still, I’m gonna change all that. This is me shot at making things better.

  Excuse me! Do you mind? That’s my daughter over there! shouts Mum. I open me eyes and see she’s pushing towards us through the crowd, shoving girls out of her way like skittles. I look at Ella, who’s still got her eyes squeezed shut. She’s smiling this daft smile, looking a total tard. Like to know who she’s thinking of.

  What the fuck is this one on? goes Mum as she reaches us, stinking like she’s been rolling in an ashtray. Looks like she’s doing voodoo.

  ‘I am so thrilled to be here. This truly is the most amazing opportunity and I’m so incredibly happy to be among those lucky few who were chosen. I cannot wait to get up there and perform and prove why I should be put into The Purrfect Search.’

  As the drum slows its beat I hold the last note, flattening my tongue against the bottom of my mouth so that it comes out pure and clean, right until the final set of chords from the keyboard. Then I let it go and drop my head like I rehearsed with Mr Field, as though I am nothing but a vessel which, having unleashed the gift of song, is now spent and empty. A second of pure silence follows, during which I don’t know anything; if I’ve given a brilliant performance or effed it up completely. In that second, with my head bowed and staring at the stage, I don’t even know if there’s anyone in existence out there in the darkness behind the light. Then comes the applause, thunderous, like God himself is clapping, and I look up and smile, seeing rows and rows of shining faces materialising one after the other as the main lights come up. The most wonderful feeling is building up inside. It’s as if my body’s been set on fire. Every nerve is alive and tingling. It’s beautiful, better than any feeling I’ve ever had before, better than any prize I’ve ever won, more exciting than any award I’ve ever been up for. It’s rather like how I’ve always imagined that drug Ecstasy must feel.

  In the front row, just behind the judges, Dad and Mr Field are standing and cheering for all they are worth, and I see Mr Field’s wig has fallen to one side and he’s so excited he hasn’t even noticed. Mr Field ended up coming instead of Mum. Of course she wanted to be here, but then the nursing home called to let us know Gramps had had a mild stroke in the night so she had to go visit him instead. All the way up from Appledore he was prepping me, reminding me of all the stuff we’ve worked on, not just the vocals but how to make it look as though the music is actually torturing the song out of you. Like you’re channelling God is how I think of it, though I didn’t say so to Mr Field since I know he’s not religious. He’s a funny little man. But he knows his stuff. He didn’t need to worry of course, because God’s been prepping me for this performance since I was born.

  At the judges’ table Emma and Joe are clapping and beaming away like crazy people. It’s only then that I notice that Tess has her arms folded and her head cocked to one side, as though she’s in two minds about the whole thing. Of course it’s not possible that my performance was anything other than stellar, but even so I feel a tiny shiver running up my spine. That shiver is enough to change everything in the space of a heartbeat. Suddenly the wonderful sensation in my body recedes leaving me feeling small and frightened. The loose, sack-shaped dress the stylist said would give my body ‘the illusion of curves’ feels like a funeral shroud. I didn’t know what they were going to put me in and so I didn’t eat a
nything all day in case it was tight-fitting round the stomach. Tiny stars dance about the corners of my field of vision and for a horrible minute I think I might actually faint. Frantically I try to remember Dad’s technique for when you get overwhelmed after a performance and feel like you’re going to collapse. I give myself a resounding mental slap, thrusting out my chest, forcing myself upright and pushing my shoulders back, casually allowing the finger of one hand to slip unseen inside a fold of material and pressing the nail of my index finger hard into the skin of my hip. Instantly I am wide awake and in control once more. The crane on the left side of the stage that holds the camera comes rushing towards me as though it’s going to attack. It slows to a halt a few seconds before impact, at which point Stina Ellis seems to magically appear beside me. She throws her arm around my shoulders and yells into her mic.

  ‘Well I think I can safely say that was A-mazing!’

  You’d think that with a band as big as Purrfect they could have got anybody they liked to host. A real name, like Tess Daly or Dermot O’Leary. Even the first time, before anyone knew who Purrfect was or if they were going to be a success they managed to get Adrianna Monk. But this time it’s just some blonde nobody whose feeble claim to fame is hosting a late-night gambling contest, one of those shows Channel 4 sticks on in the early hours of the morning when they’ve run out of proper programmes for people to watch. When Stina Ellis came in earlier some of the girls clustered around her and actually asked her for her autograph, as though she’s a real celebrity. Probably she doesn’t even know how to spell celebrity, she’s that dumb-looking.

  ‘What a beautiful voice you have,’ Stina Ellis shouts, flicking her great mane of extensions to one side so she can flash me her horrible bleached smile. ‘Louise, is there anything you’d like to say about your performance?’

  I resist the urge to wriggle out from the arm clamped round my neck as though we’re the best of friends and raise my mic back to my lips, preparing myself to get emotional. It’s always been easy for me to cry. Just like with regaining control when you think you’re in danger of losing it, there’s a technique, but this time it’s one I discovered all by myself – with a little help from God, perhaps. All I have to do is remember this dream I once had. It’s of Mum wearing her apron and humming away to herself as she scrubs out the oven in our kitchen like she does every Saturday morning. That’s her routine. Only when Mum stands up to rinse out the cloth in her bucket I see it’s not Mum but me. And I suddenly realise I’m this fifty-year-old suburban housewife. That I’m this dull, fat middle-aged woman stuck in some dreary marriage, with nothing to do but clean and scrub and pin her hopes on the futures of her own kids because she messed it up back in the days when she had a chance to be something herself. It’s the worst dream I ever had and it’s my foolproof method for bringing out the tears. It never fails.

  ‘I just want to say that this song was for Gramps,’ I say, feeling the reliable old stinging sensation welling up in my eyes. I let my voice tremble as I go on. ‘He’s very sick, and I was thinking about him when I sang it . . .’

  At this point I trail off, as though I’m too overcome to say anymore, and Stina Ellis emits a great ‘Ahhh!’ sound, as though I’m just the sweetest thing she’s ever stood next to in her whole life. There’s another great round of applause, even louder than before. I steal a glance at the judges and see Joe’s face is shiny with tears as well. Killed it. Then Stina Ellis distracts everyone by going on about how brave I am and how proud my gramps must be, and how she knows just how I feel because she’s had sick relatives before and nobody knows how much strength it took for her to go on telly for her idiotic late-night gambling shows when they were in hospital heaving out their kidney stones. Some man with a card is signalling to her to stop but she hasn’t noticed, or else doesn’t care. The silly bimbo has a mouth like a runaway train.

  ‘Judges,’ she says, when she’s finally run out of inappropriate things to tell us about herself, ‘do you have anything you’d like to say to Louise?’

  Tess reaches out. For a minute I think she’s stretching out her hand to me, but then her fingers close claw-like around a glass of water. She raises it to her lips and takes a slow deliberate gulp. Emma leans towards the little mic set up before her.

  ‘I thought that was gorgeously sung,’ she says. ‘It’s a bold and original choice of song, and I thought you sounded just great. You’re a fantastic singer, Louise—’

  The applause of hundreds of parents drowns out whatever else Emma might have to say. Tess looks very irritated and glances round at the audience as if they’re nothing but a pesky nuisance ruining the serious work she and the panel are trying to do.

  ‘Joe?’ says Stina.

  ‘Well, as you can see, I’m a sucker for Lena Malone,’ says Joe, pointing at his streaming eyes. Stina lets out a guttural noise that I suppose is her version of a titter. ‘But seriously, that was just magic. You’ve obviously got talent. It’s not a song I would have picked to showcase your voice, but you did a great job. Just be careful not to overdo those long notes, that’s all I’d say. Otherwise, simply superb.’

  More cheering. I am suddenly filled with hatred. I want to hurt this Joe for actually daring to criticise my performance, which was a perfect repeat of the one I’ve been rehearsing with Mr Field all week. In the audience I see Mr Field’s face contorting too, and I feel a surge of anger towards him as well. He was the one who insisted I should do it, despite the fact that Malone’s voice is a million times lower than mine. I fight to keep my smile. You can’t let a bit of hatred get in the way of graciousness.

  We all look at Tess, who clears her throat and leans towards her mic.

  ‘Yes,’ she says in her nasty toneless voice. ‘Watch it on the long notes. My worry with you, Louise, is that I’m not convinced you’re really enjoying what you do. Your performance was good, but there’s something very processed about it. I’m sure your granddaddy is very proud of you, but what I’m looking for is a bit of animation. Spontaneity. Purrfect are a group with edge, which is something that right now you don’t possess.’

  I can hear vague mutterings and booing from the back of the auditorium. Tess shrugs and leans back against her chair like she couldn’t care less what the plebs behind her think. The hatred I was feeling disappears completely. It is replaced by a dull sensation: the dread feeling of rejection. Hot tears form in my eyes, this time out of my control, and I have to blink like mad to keep them from spilling out.

  ‘Well!’ shouts stupid Stina Ellis. ‘I thought she was just brill and wish her the very best of luck! Ladies and gentlemen – that was Louise!’

  Everyone claps again and I force my mouth into a smile of thanks and wave before making my way off to the side of the stage, to the special seating area for the girls who have already performed, who’re now all on tenterhooks waiting to find out who has made it into the intensive five-week programme. I hold my head high as I take my seat. I can’t look across at Dad and Mr Field. If I do I know, despite everything, I will lose it. I’m the best, I tell myself, no matter what that bitch and the little queer might say for the sake of the camera. God was on my side and my performance was flawless. It’s a fact.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen – let’s hear it for Joni!’

  The next girl in line who was behind me in the queue back at the first audition comes on stage. The one with the foul mouth who insulted Dad for no good reason. I’m stunned to see her. Obviously they’ve lowered the standard this year, but I suppose they also have to think of ratings and she might be good for comedy potential or something like that. She stands there grinning like an idiot and looking across at the band, who are all stood waiting for her to present them with her music. After a couple of minutes of her just doing nothing Tess leans forward and taps her mic.

  ‘Are you planning on actually performing something?’ she asks coldly.

  ‘Ah,’ says the girl in her ridiculous annoying accent. ‘Thing is I didn’t get the messa
ge about the songs, see. The woman said I could choose one that’d been done already.’

  ‘Not a very promising start, is it?’ Tess rightfully remarks.

  ‘It weren’t my fault—!’

  ‘Not interested in that,’ Tess snaps, cutting the girl off before she has a chance to explain. ‘Which song were you going to do?’

  ‘I was gonna do “Genie in a Bottle”,’ says the girl without flinching. What is rather impressive is that she doesn’t even seem embarrassed by the way she’s holding everyone up and making an absolute effing idiot out of herself in front of all these people. ‘Only no one else has done it . . .’

  ‘Well,’ says Tess with a nasty smirk, ‘since you haven’t okayed it with the band, you’ll just have to do it without. Off you go.’

  For a couple of seconds the girl continues to stand there, prolonging her excruciating humiliation. Then she suddenly raises her mic and launches into the Christina Aguilera number. After the first two lines a pretty girl in pink sitting beside me suddenly starts to clap to the imaginary beat. I turn to look at her, astonished, since there’s nothing in this for her. The muscles in her face are pulled taut, and she’s shivering. I wasn’t concentrating much during her performance but I do remember she was a nervous wreck, staring straight ahead throughout her own song and hardly even moving. For a few seconds she claps the beat alone, and then, amazingly, it is taken up by more and more people, and soon the whole audience are clapping while the slut on stage parades up and down, thrusting her chest out and waving one hand around like a gladiator. She sounds nothing like Christina – her voice is far too husky and dry – but in a weird way it sort of almost works, I suppose. It’s almost a pity she’s messed up her chances. Not that I’m sorry, of course. She finishes with a great flourish, dropping to her knees as she sings the last line, her hand on her chest as though clutching an imaginary bottle. It’s quite an effective end, though far too much. But the applause breaks out nonetheless and people start to cheer, and I look down and realise I’ve been clapping along with everyone else.