Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (35 page)

My heart’s thumping.

‘Oh, and another thing. Never,
ever
again will you go running to that silly camera girl so she comes knocking on my door in the middle of the night. Never. I’ve got a wife to think about, can you comprehend what that means? You play nice; I play nice. Understood?’

The bell on the door rings emptily to mark his exit, and then I’m sitting alone.

The man on stage has fallen to his knees, his face glowing with adoration and his hand proffering a small velvet box.

‘I love you, Kylie,’ he begins, as the final strains of ‘Especially For You’ tinkle all around. ‘Will you marry me?’

Kylie (real name? I don’t know what’s more worrying – that this guy might actually be called Jason and Harold and Madge are about to emerge from the wings, or they’ve adopted these names for the purpose), a blonde woman of about thirty throws her hands up to her face and emits a high-pitched sort of whistle, like air escaping from a balloon.

‘Of course!’ she squeals, wasting no time in snatching the ring from his grasp. ‘Yes!’

The cameras swing in to capture the wide smiles and glinting diamond, and the bar erupts in applause – though for me it’s more to signal the end of an excruciating duet than the happy couple’s news. (And anyway, I much prefer Angry Anderson’s ‘Suddenly’ – Scott and Charlene’s wedding song – but maybe they’re saving that for the ceremony.)

No, that sounds horrible … but I suppose any declaration of love right now renders me the harbinger of doom. How come it’s so easy for some people? How come some people just meet, go out, fall in love, get married, and that’s all there is to it?

Nick keeps looking over – I can feel him watching me from the other side of the room, where he’s busy in conversation with Toby. We haven’t spoken since that phone conversation the other afternoon (which I now associate with intestinal problems, as if it wasn’t bad enough) and frankly, I don’t know what else there is to say. All I want now is to focus on the final seven days of the show and remember that after that I never have to come into contact with him again. It’s fine. I’m fine. Head down, get on with it – it’ll be over soon and I’ll unpick the damage then.

‘Aw, isn’t it adorable?’ sings Davinia, zooming up to where I’m standing by the bar and grabbing my arm. ‘Look how in love they are!’

‘If you like that sort of thing,’ I sulk. The joyous couple are locked in a passionate clinch, and I consider striding up like a cross parent at a party that’s gone on too loud and too long and pulling the plug, maybe replacing it with Radiohead and telling everyone to go home.

‘Come on, it
is
cute.’ She looks at me sympathetically. ‘I know things didn’t work out between you and Nick—’

‘Davinia, can we not talk about it?’

‘—but we all understand it’s very tough for you at the moment. You’re not yourself, darling … we’re worried about you.’

I can’t very well argue with that, having barked at her just last week. I should be kissing her feet for still wanting to talk to me – she’s one of a dying breed.

‘I’m fine,’ I say instead. ‘Honestly. I just don’t want there to be any more trouble.’

Rob floats past with one of Ruby du Jour’s red dresses swathed over his arm.

‘Ooh!’ Davinia trills. ‘Is Ruby coming out tonight?’

Rob shakes his head. ‘She’s in protest,’ he tells us. ‘Turned a bit shy of late, as it goes.’

‘How naughty!’ says Davinia, patting the construction of curls on her head. ‘I do love a spot of dissent among the ranks – it’s terribly exciting!’

Something tells me Davinia hasn’t fully grasped the situation: petrified of putting a foot wrong, we’re all tiptoeing round the cameras like we’ve stumbled across a field of landmines (or maybe that’s just me: unable to sleep, I seem to have been OD-ing on Minesweeper on my laptop in the small hours). As far as she’s concerned, as long as we’re on telly it’s all a bit of fun, and for that I should be grateful: while the rest of us are pretending to carry on our lives as normal, Davinia really
is
enjoying herself. Which is nice – I’m glad one of us can.

‘Those two seem to be getting on well, don’t they?’ Rob
nods to the bar, where Jaz and Alex are chatting as they get drinks together. I’m relieved to see Jaz is looking more like her old self. Tonight she’s donning a T-shirt with a massive old-fashioned telephone printed on it in the Andy Warhol style, a papier-mâché receiver perched on her head like an Alice band. Very Gaga.

‘She must bring something out in him,’ I observe. ‘He’s never that animated with me. I always find it a bit like talking to a waxwork.’

‘He’s probably scared of you,’ teases Rob, digging out a large carrier from behind the bar and stuffing the gown into it. ‘Big bad boss lady.’

I’m tempted to reiterate the fact I didn’t actually hire Alex – Evan did, right off the street. But that might bring up the whole Archie thing so I decide against it for now.

Kylie and Jason are slipping off the stage into the arms of their loved ones, drowning in a cacophony of congratulations and glasses of champagne. A sliver of gladness appears in the great dark cloud of the past few weeks. My own love life might be floundering on its back at the bottom of a well, but at least Pineapple has facilitated, in some small way, the happiness these two are sharing. I’m starting to feel almost better when from the corner of my eye I see Nick approaching. Uh-oh.

Rob and Davinia notice him too, and discreet as traitors they melt away, leaving me standing exposed at the end of the bar, a sitting target. I brace myself for whatever scripted bollocks he’s about to deliver on Evan’s behest. Probably the same thing he’s been discussing with Toby.

But Andre comes to the rescue.

Or rather, Andre up someone’s skirt comes to the rescue. There’s a piercing scream as a large woman in a too-tight peach dress, halfway through a tuneless performance of ‘Heaven is a Place on Earth’, projects her glass-shattering alarm down the microphone. She falls backwards, caught from behind by an unfortunate man whose cheeks inflate with the strain. As they both crumple to the floor, something small, hairy and appearing to wear a skin-tight Super Ted costume darts out from under her and across the stage.

Then someone does something very silly. They say the R word.

‘It’s a rat! A rat in a dress!’

Pandemonium ensues. Women run screaming, falling over each other, trampling across fallen compatriots with spiky heels. The karaoke machine moves on: Michael Jackson’s ‘Ben’.

Jaz rushes forward before I have a chance to. We’ve had to be strict with her about keeping Andre in his little box behind the bar (celebrity guinea pigs needn’t adhere to hygiene regulations, it seems) since filming began, but even now I know she’s not really concerned about the shrieking masses; she just wants to make sure he’s not hurt.

‘Andre!’ She’s scanning the floor, desperate, as people clamber around her. Anyone would think a bomb had just gone off. ‘Andre, come to Mummy!’

There’s only one thing for it. And, mercifully, it’s the very same thing that gets me away from the incoming missile of Nick Craven. I head on to the stage, grab the mic, and prepare to explain the presence of a guinea pig even I don’t fully understand.

It’s gone midnight by the time I get back upstairs. There’s an answer phone message from Dad, asking me to video a programme about Roxy Music that’s on BBC2 tomorrow night. He says I can tape over the blank cassette marked ‘Sapphy Does the Worm’ – please god I never find out what that entails. And before you ask, yes, we do still have a VCR – even if my parents understood stuff like catch-up and iPlayer, I doubt they’d want to use it. The video’s got its own remote and everything.

I crawl slugglishly into my Woodstock pyjamas (as in Snoopy, not the festival: I’m not my mother quite yet), check my phone a final time to make sure I haven’t missed a call from Lou (I haven’t) and make a cup of sugary tea.

I’m about to hole up in bed with a trashy magazine when there’s a knock on the door. Thinking it’s Jaz wanting to spill the gossip about Alex, I answer it without checking first.

It’s Nick Craven.

An impossibly handsome, more handsome than I remembered in a dark grey T-shirt and jeans, his hair dark and messy, stubble on his chin and faint but troubled circles under his eyes Nick Craven.

I feel like my heart’s being used as a punch bag.

‘What do you want?’ I ask as neutrally as I can.

Nick puts a hand up on the doorframe, and a delicious smell accompanies the movement. It’s a familiar, comforting smell, like a box of clothes your mum put in the roof when you were twelve; like I’ve known it for longer than I’ve known him.

‘If you’re going to carry on ignoring me,’ he says, ‘I figured I had no other choice. Why aren’t you taking my calls?’

‘The other choice would be to leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you, Nick; I don’t want to see you. Can’t you let it go?’

He just looks at me. God, how he looks at me.

‘Can I come in?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll be five minutes. Please.’

I attempt to shut the door, but his arm is in the way. Suddenly I’m conscious of my tragic nightwear and hairy slippers and wish I could be wearing sexy plum-coloured lingerie, before telling myself off for bothering about what he thinks.

‘There isn’t anything to say.’

‘There is.’

Meeting his gaze is like looking at the sun: even though I know I shouldn’t do it, something compels me to try – and it burns. ‘Not for me.’

‘For me.’

Nick’s tired, I can see. He looks like he hasn’t slept in ages.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks again.

I’ve always liked to think I’m a good judge of character: the past two months have made me reconsider this. Nick’s expression is direct, honest, fixed with intent – which doesn’t make sense knowing what I know. As much for my curiosity as anything else, I decide to hear him out.

‘Five minutes,’ I say flatly, standing back to let him in. As he walks past a ripple travels through me and I hate myself for reacting that way.

Nick takes in his surroundings with a somewhat distressed expression: the portraiture on the walls, the imaginative furniture, the violet mirrors, the gallery of greats. It’s difficult to tell if this is the standard reaction of anyone who sets foot in my parents’ flat for the first time, or if he’s just finding the words.

Finally he turns to me. ‘Whatever you think about what happened between us, you’re wrong.’

I fold my arms. I really wish I wasn’t wearing these slippers.

‘Whatever Evan’s told you … it’s not the full story.’

‘Go on then.’

Nick exhales heavily, goes to sit down then stops. ‘OK if I take a seat?’

‘Whatever you like,’ I say tightly. ‘Don’t make yourself too comfortable.’

He settles on the edge of the sofa, which lost its springs some time ago and sags wearily under his weight. I’m aware the angle he’s looking at me from isn’t the most flattering – I hope I’m not having a double-chin week.

‘There’s a lot I have to tell you, Maddie,’ he says slowly. ‘But there’s also a lot that, right now, I can’t.’

I tap my foot impatiently, remember the slippers and quickly stop.

‘I did take you out because Evan asked me. He hired me because I was prepared to do that – I was desperate—’