Dream Machine Read online

  When the applause has finally died down Stina Ellis strides on stage and congratulates the girl on her ‘amazing solo’ which is ‘unlike anything she’s ever heard before’. The girl starts grinning stupidly again, as though she really believes what Stina says might be true. After some more ridiculously over-the-top congratulations Stina turns to the panel.

  ‘So Tess,’ she says brightly. ‘What did you think?’

  Tess glares at Stina Ellis. It’s obvious she hates the stupid untalented bee even more than I do. She turns her head slightly and addresses herself to the idiot standing next to her.

  ‘Failing to provide the band with a song is pathetic,’ she says. ‘Ordinarily that would disqualify you right away in my opinion . . . However, after a performance like that, I’m willing to make an exception. I’ll say this for you, Joni. You’ve got guts. And guts is what I’m looking for.’

  The theatre explodes into applause again. It’s the first time Tess has actually said anything even vaguely positive and everyone knows it. I can hardly believe it. The girl has been let off the hook and she doesn’t even seem to realise how lucky she is. She accepts more praise from Emma and Joe and then saunters towards the seating area like she wasn’t expecting anything less. I watch her sit down next to the blonde girl who started the clapping in the first place and as she does she gives her a wink and the blonde girl blushes. Stupid effing bloody cees – don’t they know they’re competing with one another? Still, it doesn’t mean this girl is going through. Of course Tess might say something like that for the camera to put everyone off the scent, but when it comes to the big crunch she’s not going to even consider putting a liability like that into The Purrfect Search. This is for winners only.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for . . . Riana!’

  The next girl comes on. I’ve noticed her at the first audition too, because she’s tall and has ebony skin like Alek Wek. She looks a bit mannish to me, especially with the way they’ve brushed her hair forward so that it sits around her face like she’s wearing a carpet on her head. But she’s got a pretty good way of moving, hips swaying from side to side as if she really is a model, plus she’s got a massive bust, which must help when it comes to getting people’s attention. When she gets to centre stage she drops her head and points at the band. The conductor immediately waves his baton and instantly they start up, no introduction or anything. It’s an attention-grabbing way to begin, and I don’t know how she managed to pull it off. People all around are sitting up straight and taking notice, which is annoying but not what’s got me shivering with horror. It’s the words coming out of the big-boobed show-off’s mouth.

  ‘Well baby, the penny dropped, I’m sooo in love,’ sings the black girl, swinging those hips like a pendulum and staring dead on into Tess’s face as if about to put a bullet between her eyes. ‘Ain’t never gonna get rid of me – don’t ya knooow?’

  My song. The girl doing my effing song, the one specially chosen for me, to show off my diversity. And what’s more she’s good. She’s better than good. Her voice is deep and raspy but also rich and strong, much more suited to a Lena Malone number than mine will ever be. Why did I listen to that quacking fairy with his big ideas of what the judges would be looking for? I knew God was telling me to do another LeAnn Rimes number, or even ‘I Will Always Love You’, which sounds incredible when I do it because I can go right up into my highest register. I grip the underside of my chair to stop myself from flying up the stairs and attempting to scratch the black bee’s eyes out. I will God to make her slip over and snap her ankle in those impossibly high-heeled boots they’ve put her in, but she simply bounces around the stage as though they were the latest Skechers. When she finishes, pointing at the crowd with her hand on one hip and smirking, the applause is simply deafening. I look over at the judges where Emma and Joe are clapping away like mad as usual, and I see that Tess has also got both hands raised. To my disbelief I watch as almost in slow motion she taps them together a couple of times, nodding as though she’s finally seen something she reckons was worth actually sitting through. The black girl takes a deep bow and Stina appears beside her. They smile huge white twin smiles at one another. As the judges give their verdicts, tell the girl how flawless she was, waves of hot and cold spread through my body like I’m having a fever. My vision blurs and all I can hear is an odd buzzing sound, like the static that you get off the television when you switch on to a non-channel. My song. She took my song and did it better than me. Why, God – why?

  It’s only when the lights go down and girls around me start standing up and chattering amongst themselves that I come to my senses. I look up, confused, to see that the black girl is now standing nearby, still wearing that big fat smile, and being praised by a trio of other girls.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I hear myself say, not knowing exactly who I’m addressing and feeling my cheeks flush because I hate asking people I don’t know for help. ‘What did they say just now? I missed it.’

  ‘There’s a thirty-minute break before they get us all back in to let us know who they want.’

  It’s the black girl who answers. She towers over me with her enormous grin, her ridiculous chest and her pitying, penetrating eyes. For a second I imagine lunging at her, knocking her flying and throwing myself on top of her and pounding that smug face over and over until those perfect teeth are lying in jagged fragments all about the room. But even if I wanted to there’s no way I could take her on. She seems impossibly grand and muscular, like a chesty marine. Instead I mutter thank you and turn to look for Dad and Mr Field.

  ‘Hey, didn’t we do the same song?’ says the girl, reaching out and touching my shoulder. I turn back, flinching without meaning to, and the girl’s smile widens even more. There’s something about the tone of her voice that tells me not only does she know the answer to her question perfectly effing well, she is in no doubt as to who did it best.

  ‘It’s just tense now really. Very, very nervous and very, very excited. I don’t know what I’ll do if it turns out they’ve not picked me. Go back to stripping, I guess. Maybe go on the game – hear there’s big bucks to be made there. Joking! You’ll edit that bit out, won’t ya? Anyway, point is at least I’ll be able to say I tried. That’s the main thing.’

  When we get out into the entrance hall the cameras are waiting for us like a welcoming party. Right away they start lining up girls and doing the old vox pop stuff. I’m one of the first to get grabbed and I listen to myself going on about how tense and exciting it is. Can’t concentrate on what I’m saying, so I just show them lots of teeth and hope I don’t sound like some yakking twat. It’s cos I’m on such a fucking high. I was the only one that Tess bint clapped for, I noticed – and this little scrap of a human being with a choir girl’s voice had gone and sung my song already. Thought it was over when I heard her launching into it. I went up to her and congratulated her after and said how we’d both done really well, hadn’t we? and she smiled and nodded but in her eyes I could see she was pissed off. Then she just walked off, not saying anything about my performance, probably cos I was ten times better and she knew it. Known lots of girls like that. Mean. At the club they’re the ones who always try and get out there first, making right tits of themselves trying to bag the rich-looking punters before the other girls get on the scene, never figuring out that it’s always the punters who choose the girl, no matter how much you smile or pout or wave your bits around under their noses.

  The camera dude moves on to this ginger girl who fucked up her song big time by forgetting the second verse. Poor thing trembles in front of them like she’s got pneumonia, trying not to cry while her mum and dad stand off to one side, watching like the sight of her so upset is breaking their hearts. It’s definitely a good thing Eddy’s not here. Not just cos she doesn’t approve, but also cos I wouldn’t want her to see me like that. All pathetic and snivelling. It’s good that I’m here on my own, even if I do seem to be the only one not surrounded
by people screaming, weeping or shouting. If I don’t get through to the show there’ll be no one round to see me fail, and that’s just the way I want it.

  As I stand there watching all these nervous girls hugging their friends and families and stuttering to the camera, at the back of my mind I get this tweaking feeling and I know something’s not quite as peachy as it could be. Like there’s a tiny muscle in my brain that’s seizing up, a muscle that needs to be stretched so it can relax. I know this feeling. Very soon it’ll develop into the jitters and then there’ll be tiredness and then it’ll be impossible to ignore. Don’t want to go back on stage crashing. Time to visit the old powder room again, give myself a little congratulations hit. I start making my way through the lake of misty-eyed girls and parents towards the ladies’.

  I’ve finally managed to fight my way to a cubicle, and I’ve just carefully emptied out enough for a couple of lines when my phone goes. Shit! I think, realising that the damn thing’s been on all this time. Lucky it didn’t go off during my song or that’d have fucked the whole thing up, no question, something Eddy, I’m sure, would have been glad of. I hid it in my boot along with the blow when they said we couldn’t keep our bags with us. The security woman assured me our stuff would be quite safe but I’ve heard that one before. Once lost fifty quid I’d collected in a routine by just putting it down on the table and taking my eye off it cos the party was getting a little too crowded down in my G.

  Hey, says Eddy in that no-fucking-about way she’s got. Thought I’d see how it went.

  It’s not over yet, I tell her, I did my song, but we’ve got to go back in a bit and find out who got through. They’re going to line us all up on stage and film us screaming and breaking down when they tell us the news.

  I don’t know if that’s the plan really, but I play the whole thing up for Eddy, cos I know it’ll piss her right off. Sure enough there’s this sound of a long breath being sucked up at the other end of the line. Her disapproving noise – recognise it anywhere, I’ve heard it so often. Sometimes I wonder what she’s doing with me when everything I say or do is always such a massive let-down for her. But I know she loves me really. Otherwise she wouldn’t be calling, would she?

  Don’t say nothing, I warn her. We’ve had that chat, remember?

  That chat ended in me going on a three-day vow of silence after she told me that while stripping could just about be confused with empowerment in this day and age, if I started gyrating around on a stage as a pop star and pretending I was doing anything other than titillating men she’d lose all respect for me whatsoever. Talk about overplaying the feminist card. What’s wrong with a bit of softcore anyway? is what I said. Sometimes Eddy is so fucking up herself you have to wonder where it all comes from. Some deep trauma, no doubt, probably involving a dirty uncle with happy fingers. Like Eddy won’t happily sit there and watch the Pussycat Dolls when they’re on telly creaming herself just like everyone else. Sulking’s the only way to get through to someone like her, cos she can’t deal with silence. Sure enough, when she got that I wasn’t letting it go, she was the one who caved.

  Fine, she sighs, clearly meaning anything but. How’d your song go?

  Like a treat, I say, not able to keep the glee out of my voice. Apart from the ethical shit, one of the arguments she used when she was trying to get me not to come was that I’d only end up chickening out at the last minute. But if that’s what she really reckoned then Eddy doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does, cos when I want something, I go for it. She still thinks it was her who started things between us. I let her believe it cos I know she likes to feel she’s in control, but in actual reality it was none other than this bitch right here. For touching me, wiggling her finger against my thigh the way she did when I sat on her lap and pushed my brand-new tits in her face, I could have got her thrown out the club. Reason I didn’t was cos I didn’t want to, plain and simple. Cos I knew the second I laid eyes on her that I was going home with her that night, no matter what club policy or Emily’s stories about girls that end up as sushi for psychos. Tall as me, big strong lips, catlike eyes, sexy as fuck. You just got to ignore the skull on her neck, which she had done when she was seventeen and too young to know better.

  Huh, Eddy says, not sounding the littlest bit pleased for me, I suppose I should say well done. Was anyone in the audience actually listening to you?

  At this I can’t help but feel annoyed, cos Eddy never can let it rest, even when she’s promised to. But I figure let it go, seeing as I’m starting to get jittery here and anyway, it’s not easy for her. I know the biggest reason she didn’t want me to do this isn’t cos of the political shit, it’s cos I said she’d have to stay in the shadows. When I get famous I’ll talk us up every chance I get, shout it out to the whole fucking world, but till then the closet door stays shut. Not taking any risks. Maybe once the ball is rolling, if all goes well, then I’ll admit to being bisexual and see how that goes down. Didn’t do Angelina Jolie’s career no harm, did it?

  You be nice, I tell her, and maybe there’ll be a happy surprise in store for you when I get home.

  I make a couple of lapping sounds with my tongue, case she didn’t get it. Eddy can’t help chuckling. She’s always saying how she can’t get over the way I’m always up for it, like a career in stripping is s’posed to make you yawn when it’s time to get it on. Well, you try taking your clothes off and bringing other people to the brink of orgasm for a living and see if it don’t make you sexually frustrated. I’ll tell you something about strippers: we’re the horniest bunch of bitches alive.

  Got to go now, I say, I’ll let you know what happens. Kisses.

  I turn the phone off. Time’s running out, so using my little finger I scoop up as much blow as I can fit on my nail and stuff it up my nose. As I do the second nostril, there’s a knock on the door and I freeze.

  Excuse me, but are you gonna be much longer? calls a voice. You been fucking ages!

  I quickly slip the blow back into my sock. I open the door and find myself face to face with the same girl who had a go at me earlier. Some council-estate type with a mouth like Vicky Pollard. She’s got this weaselly sly expression on her face, like she reckons she’s got something on me.

  I know what you been doing, she says meaningfully. Any chance of a favour?

  Don’t know what you’re talking about.

  I think you do, she says, and I don’t think it’d go down well with them judges to know about it neither.

  The little pikey folds her arms and grins at me. I have a quick look behind her at the crowd of girls checking their hair and faces in the mirror. None of them seems to be paying us any attention so I grab this girl by the hand and yank her into the cubicle, yelling All right, I’ll fix your dress for you! as I shut the door behind her. The girl rubs her hands while I slip the blow out from my sock once more.

  Cor! she breathes, you got enough there to do a fucking army!

  Shhhh!

  Sorry. How’m I gonna do it?

  I roll my eyes and reach into the bag with my little finger, taking another smidge on the underside of the nail, then hold it up to her face. The girl flinches away for a second, like she thinks I’m going to stick it in her eyeball. Then she takes hold of my hand with hers and pushes the finger right up her nostril. She places her own finger on the other one and snorts it like a fucking elephant. I cringe at the noise.

  Jesus. You want everyone to know?

  Thanks! goes the girl, totally oblivious, dabbing her nose. Wow – that’s the stuff!

  I got to go now, I tell her, slipping the packet back into my sock. The girl lifts the toilet seat and starts merrily hiking her dress up.

  Sure thing – see you out there! she shouts.

  Outside the cubicle I fight my way towards the mirror and check myself for signs. I look fine so far as I can see – better than fine. That tensed-up muscle in my brain’s starting to relax and I can feel myself picking right up. How the fuck did that little bitch kn
ow I had the blow? Still, she seemed cool. Or if not cool at least like she knows how to handle herself. I kind of like the way she just did that in fact, barging in on the action like she had every right to. Like a girl with guts, I do, even if she does sound like she never passed an exam in her life. I give myself a final once-over and start shoving my way to the door.

  Back in the entrance hall there’s so much noise it’s like Stansted airport. But it’s not just the sound of all these girls being given pep-talks by their mums and dads, there’s some guy over by the main doors shouting at the top of his lungs. I do some more shoving and head over to see what all the fuss is about. Everyone’s stood back and is watching this furious-looking dad, who’s pointing his finger at this little blonde sweetheart in a pink dress crying like a dog just shat on her Manolos.

  You listen to me! he’s yelling. We expressly forbade this! And don’t think by crying and trying to make me look like the bad guy you’re getting away with it! Go and fetch your clothes this instant. We’re going home!

  The girl doesn’t move. She just stands there shaking, her arms dangling at her sides, like she’s slipped into an upright coma. The camera dude that filmed me doing my twirl outside the pop boutique pushes into the circle just in front of me and points his camera at the angry dad. Behind him the sound geezer appears and swings his boom over the heads of people around him. The dad stares at them like he can’t believe his eyes.

  You get that fucking camera out of my face! he shouts. There are several gasps from the parents at the word fucking, but this dad doesn’t give a shit.

  I’m not part of this travesty and you don’t have my permission either!

  He carries on shouting at the crew, who back away without a word but continue to shoot, as if he’s some rare species of animal they’re documenting for the Discovery Channel. I’m fucking warning you! he shouts, coming at them with his fists up. He’s gone bright scarlet and there are veins bulging out at his temples. Spite of this he’s quite cute. One of those metrosexual types that obviously believes in moisturising and taking care of his skin, since he don’t look nearly old enough to be the girl’s father. If only more of my clients at the club bothered with that sort of thing, the job’d almost be a pleasure. If metrosexual types is what did it for me, that is.