Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (30 page)

‘Not as nice as you,’ he says smoothly, raising his eyebrows over the rim of the open menu. I never noticed before how tidy his eyebrows are. I wonder if he plucks them.

The waiter comes and I order a salad for starters, then penne with courgette spaghetti. I hope it’s not actual spaghetti, otherwise that’s shitloads of pasta.

‘And for you, sir?’

‘Yuh,’ Lawrence sits up straighter in his chair, ‘I’ll take the scarlops and choritho. Then I’ll have the
sar
mon, hmm, yes, and a plate of fweets.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘Fweets.’

There’s an awkward silence, before Lawrence grumbles, ‘Chips,’ and the waiter takes the menus away.

I hide my smile in the G&T. See? Nick’s not the only one who can make me laugh.

‘You were getting a bit of attention outside, then?’ Lawrence asks, his eager face shimmering in the candlelight.

‘I guess so.’

The wine arrives and Lawrence pours it. ‘You’d better get used to it; the press are going mad over you. Who’d have thought it?’ He chuckles. ‘
I
never reckoned you’d be doing something like this.’

‘Nor me.’ I sigh loudly, hoping he’ll get the hint and drop it at that. But of course he doesn’t.

‘All that time you led me to believe you just wanted an ordinary life,’ he goes on, ‘and deep down you craved success – exactly like me!’ He raises his glass. ‘Cheers to that.’

We clink glasses.

‘So I was thinking,’ and his face suggests I’m going to like what’s coming, ‘perhaps I could make an appearance on the live final? You know, since I missed the first.’

‘Lawrence, do you mind if we don’t talk about the bar?’

He’s confused. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m tired of it,’ I explain. ‘I just want to have a normal evening out, how things were before. Please?’

‘How things were before?’ He leans across. ‘Maddie, are you saying …?’

‘I’m not saying anything. Let’s take it one day at a time, OK?’ I gulp back the wine. ‘Lots has happened since the show began and I’m not ready to rush into anything. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Of course, of
course
!’ he says, dripping with empathy. ‘I know
exactly
how it is. When you’re so in-demand you just want to hide away and take a break from it all – you don’t need to tell me about that!’

‘OK … Thanks.’

‘So I promise not to talk about the show.’

I smile gratefully at him as our starters come.

‘But just as a last thing,’ he harpoons a fleshy scallop with his fork (Lou once told me they were fish cheeks and I’ve not been able to eat them since), ‘you wouldn’t be against the idea
per se
, would you?’

‘What idea?’

‘Of me getting involved on the final night? Only to help you out, you know, take the pressure of live TV off a bit.’

It can’t make things any worse, that’s for certain. ‘All right,’ I say, picking disinterestedly at my salad, ‘whatever.’

By the time the main course arrives, Lawrence is on his third monologue. I’ve barely been able to cram a word in edgeways and once again I get the impression he doesn’t need me here at all; I could be a blow-up doll for all the conversation he requires.

‘… So I said to her, “Look, if you don’t want me for the new production, just tell me!” I mean I was going to split up with her anyway, because of you, but even so I’d appreciate a little
honesty
, stupid old bag …’

I find myself tuning in and out, smiling politely and nodding at the necessary junctures. Even the contentious subject of how he broke up with Francesca Montgomery doesn’t really interest me.

Profiteroles seem to be the only thing for it, so I waste no time in ordering pudding. While Lawrence is digging into his crème brûlée I seize the opportunity to steer the conversation away from him.

‘Top five eighties songs,’ I say through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘You first.’

Lawrence looks annoyed, like I’ve interrupted his train of thought. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Favourite five singles of the eighties,’ I say again. ‘What are they?’

He’s baffled. ‘What the hell kind of question is that?’

I put down my spoon. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, Law.’

‘It’s Lawrence these days,’ he corrects me.

‘It’s just a bit of fun, Lawrence.’

‘It’s stupid. You know I hate this music stuff – I never know what to say.’

‘Come on, you always know what to say.’ He brightens a shade at the compliment. ‘Shall I start?’

‘Fine, OK, whatever you like.’

I list my five and wait for his reaction. He’s busy cracking the bronzed shell on his pudding and makes a sort of ‘Mm?’ sound when I prompt him for a response.

‘Great,’ he says. ‘Great choice.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Never heard of half of them.’

I pretend I don’t mind. ‘Your go.’

Lawrence pushes his crème brûlée away and tosses his napkin on to the table. Instinctively I know if he ever has kids he’ll be annoyed if they spill something, or take up too much of his time.

‘Must I?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘All right, all right – if it’ll make you happy …’ He sighs extremely loudly. ‘What’s that one about broken wings? I quite like that one. My dad’s got it on one of his driving ballads CDs.’

‘Mr Mister?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘“Broken Wings” by Mr Mister – that’s the one you mean.’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

I grin. ‘You really like that song?’

Lawrence throws his arms up. ‘See what I mean?’

‘It’s a bit corny.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s meaningful.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Don’t ask me. Birds don’t like being in cages?’ He’s totally deadpan.

‘Er …’

‘At least it’s not Pineapple Mist,’ he snaps, on the defence.

‘Pineapple Mist is plenty of people’s favourite!’

Lawrence clears his throat, as if the conversation has become far too silly.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he says, signalling for the bill. ‘There’s a great jazz place nearby with outdoor seating.’

I pull on my cardigan. ‘Isn’t it a bit cold to sit outside?’

‘A little cold never hurt anyone,’ he says, inspecting the tab. ‘Right – you had the penne and I had the
sar
mon, which is a bit more expensive, but then you had a G&T and I’d already paid for my sherry separately, so that evens it out …’

‘Lawrence, shall we just go halves?’

‘No, no,’ he rubs his chin, ‘I’m not sure that’s fair.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I say, ‘I’m not fussed.’

‘I mean I think you owe more than me.’ He pulls his phone out his pocket and finds the calculator bit, begins punching in the items. ‘Bugger! I’ve messed it up.’

‘Seriously, let’s split it. I’ll buy you a drink some time.’

‘All right …’ He shakes his head and slips his phone back in his pocket. ‘Can you leave the tip though? Better do fifteen per cent since it’s a smart place.’

By the time we get outside I’m not feeling in the mood to go on somewhere else, so I hail a cab and say goodbye to Lawrence on the street. He keeps looking around and seems annoyed, as if he expected someone else to be here.

‘Bye then,’ I say, opening the door. ‘Thanks for, um, taking me out.’

Suddenly there’s a man charging across the empty street, breathless, red-faced, brandishing a camera. ‘Maddie?’ His eyes widen as he claps eyes on my companion. ‘Lawrence Oliver!’
Snap snap snap
.

Lawrence steps forward. ‘The very same—’

‘Bye, Lawrence.’ I clamber into the car feeling like Paris Hilton without her knickers on, but not before he’s grabbed me by the hand, a little painfully if truth be told.

‘Can I kiss you?’ he breathes urgently. ‘I have to kiss you. I’ve been dying to all night. You don’t know what you do to me, Mads.’

‘Er … no.’ I try to shut the door.

But he doesn’t hear. Drawing me into his arms with surprising strength, Lawrence plants a big wet kiss on my mouth, and for a moment we’re engaged in a very uncomfortable closed-lipped embrace, him trying for passion and me trying to get away as soon as possible but not wanting to embarrass him. The kiss can’t last more than a few seconds but it feels like an eternity. At one point I peek and see that Lawrence is peeking too, except he’s looking out to the side, where the man
with the camera is rapidly approaching. With our eyes open and our mouths closed the whole kissing thing seems oddly upside down.

I’m bright red by the time my taxi pulls away. I can see Lawrence in the rearview mirror, no longer alone but chatting to a small group of paparazzi, making elaborate hand gestures and for some reason filling me with dread.

I’ve only been in the cab five minutes when I get a text from Lou. Two words:

Call me

Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. It’s unheard of for Lou to send a one-page text – she’s forever blocking up my inbox with five-page-long messages that go into unnecessary detail about a coat, or a pair of shoes, or how someone was rude to her on the bus – and she never
ever
forgets to add kisses. I ring her back straight away, hoping I’m worrying about nothing, but as soon as she picks up I know something is seriously the matter. Lou’s in tears.

‘Lou? My god, what’s wrong?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in a cab on the Strand.’

A long pause. ‘Can you get up here?’

Her voice isn’t right. She sounds cold, removed. I’ve never heard her like it before.

‘Sure – what is it? Are you OK?’

‘Just hurry. I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.’

When I turn up at Lou’s flat half an hour later, I’m shocked by her appearance. She answers the door looking haunted, her cheeks puffy and her eyes swollen. My immediate thought is that the world is coming down with some dreadful killer virus – Jaz looked almost as bad when I left her earlier.

‘What on earth’s happened?’ I ask, following her in.

She turns on me. ‘Your fucking show, that’s what’s happened.’

I’m taken aback by her vitriol – Lou’s always so calm, so reasonable. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I knew it would be like this,’ she laughs bitterly, ‘I knew it from the start – but did you listen? No.’

‘Lou, you’re going to have to help me out here,’ I say, shaken by her outburst. I’ve never seen her so angry – at least not since I dyed her hair green in year nine – and it scares me. ‘Slow down a minute and tell me what’s going on.’

‘It’s too late,’ she says, wiping her nose and collapsing on to the sofa. ‘It’s all messed up now. It’s all ruined.’ She puts her head in her hands.

Cautiously I sit down next to her. I consider putting an arm across her shoulders but something in her steely frame warns me not to.

‘Lou …’

‘You had to agree to this stupid show, didn’t you?’ she sobs. ‘Even when I told you it was a bad idea and you hadn’t thought it through properly. Because it wasn’t just
you
who mattered, was it? It was the rest of us. But you didn’t think about that, did you?’

I grapple for words. ‘Of course I did. I—’

‘Not enough,’ she lashes. ‘You didn’t care that all our lives were going to be paraded in front of the cameras for all the world to see. No, never mind about that so long as you were raking in the money. Never mind what it’s cost the rest of us!’

There’s a horribly long silence. I feel like someone’s punched me in the face.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I say slowly, my heart pumping wildly. ‘You have to calm down and tell me.’

She hugs her knees to her chest and another sob escapes.

‘Simon and Jaz,’ she snivels. ‘They … they kissed.’

‘
What?
’

‘Last night, after I left yours. There I was, studying at home like some cross-eyed dweeb while he was off snogging someone else. And I knew it from the beginning, didn’t I? I
knew
there was something between them. But you told me not to worry, that I was only making it up.’