Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (4 page)

‘Mum?’ I call, kicking off the trainers and throwing my borrowed coat on the table. ‘Dad?’ The light is dim and there’s a faint sweet smell of baking.
Baking?
Clearly something is seriously the matter.

There’s a loud thump. ‘
Blast!
’ comes my dad’s voice from the kitchen. I follow it and what I find there is frankly bizarre: Dad’s on his hands and knees with his head buried in a cupboard, and on the floor there’s a cardboard box filled with open packets of biscuits.

‘Dad?’ I wring my hands together. ‘What’s going on?’

Dad emerges from the cupboard, banging his head in doing so. He’s still a good-looking man: tall and blond, only slightly balding, with a naturally happy face. He’s got an iPod in and as one of the earphones springs free I can hear Prefab Sprout. This upsets me further.

‘Maddie!’ He gets up, holding his arms out. Unlike Mum, he actually listened when I told him I wanted to shorten my name. ‘How’s my favourite girl?’

I gesture to the floor, like, Please can
someone
explain?

‘Oh!’ He laughs. ‘Your mother’s adamant we take enough to eat. For the journey, you know. It could be a long time on the ferry, you never can tell. And she does like her fig rolls …’

I hold a hand up. ‘Hang on a sec. What ferry?’

His face falls. ‘Sapphy didn’t tell you? I thought she rang this afternoon.’

‘She did,’ I say. ‘She told me to come home and then she hung up. It was like this massive panic so I had to leave work straight away. I get here and the car’s all packed up and you’re shuffling about in all these biscuits and I’m freaking out now a bit, Dad …’

A pair of musk-scented arms wraps around me.

‘Rick and I need to have a quick word with you, poppet,’ Mum says, turning me to face her. She looks amazingly well, I notice. Her cheeks are glowing and her normal bush of dyed black hair is brushed and sleek. ‘Come and sit down.’

Oh god, I think. Oh god oh god oh god. They’re pregnant. Hence all the biscuits. She’s
hungry
– she’s got cravings for Malted Milks and Marmite, or something. And all the boxes in the car aren’t going; they’re
coming
. It’s baby stuff, like a musical mobile that plays Spandau Ballet, and dummies in the shape of mini microphones …

‘We’re going away,’ she says once I’m perched nervously on the edge of the couch.

I’m confused. ‘What? Where?’

My parents exchange a look. It must be a holiday, I decide. Yes, it’s a holiday.

‘For three months,’ she adds.

‘A three-month
holiday
?’

Now it’s Mum’s turn to look puzzled. ‘It’s not a holiday, darling. It’s work.’

‘
Work?
’ This is even more absurd.

‘Yes,’ Dad huffs, lifting his chin with pride. ‘We’re touring again.’

My mouth drops open.

‘That’s right.’ Mum smiles. ‘Rick and Sapphire are back. Pineapple Mist’ – wow, she really savours saying that – ‘are back.’

I still haven’t had a chance to comment before Dad’s straight in there.

‘It’s a revival tour, Maddie,’ he says excitedly, darting on to the sofa next to me. ‘Do you know what this means? Pineapple Mist is getting a second chance!’

There’s a brief silence.

‘Like that programme Tony Hadley did?’ Of all the questions I need to ask right now, it is this I cough up.

‘That’s it.’ Mum nods. ‘A nostalgia tour. “One Hit Wonderful.” We’ll be touring Eastern Europe for the next few months with some old friends’ – she gestures round the room – ‘though I think your father’s hoping something more permanent will come of it …’

‘Something will, Sapphy!’ He gazes adoringly at her. ‘Just think about it: you and me out on stage, the crowd screaming our names—’

‘What about everything here?’ I interrupt.

They both turn to look at me.

‘That’s where you come in, darling,’ says Mum, kneeling down and taking my hands. ‘This is a wonderful opportunity for you.’

I frown.

‘We were thinking, you see,’ interjects Dad, putting his arm round me, ‘about how this might work out for you. We know you’re not too happy at Simply Voices, and this could be the platform you need to move on to bigger and better things.’

I’m not sure I like where this is going. ‘What sort of platform?’ I ask carefully.

A wide smile splits Mum’s face as she squeezes my fingers. ‘We want
you
to manage Sing It Back!’ My expression must be one of incredulous horror as she tacks on smoothly: ‘Just while we’re away, a trial period—’

‘No,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘No way. Nuh-uh. No way.’

‘Why not?’ Dad looks genuinely surprised. The two of them spring up, full of concern.

I want to laugh. Instead I appeal to Dad’s more sensible nature: no doubt this was Mum’s harebrained idea. ‘Come on, you can’t possibly be serious. You know how I feel about the K word. It’s not me, never has been. Plus I don’t know the first thing about running a business.’

‘Archie’ll help you, so will Ruby.’ Dad’s talking about two of the bar’s old-timers. ‘We’ll fund you through the whole time we’re away; you’ve nothing to worry about—’

‘Dad,
no
. It’s too much of a commitment.’

‘But haven’t you been searching for this kind of commitment since uni?’ Mum butts in, and Dad starts nodding. How come mums always talk you into destroying your own argument? ‘You’re always saying you want more responsibility, sweetheart. Well, this is your chance. You’ll be in charge; it’s just the sort of experience you need. And it’s only a few months …’

I try a different approach. ‘My heart wouldn’t be in it. I’d
do a terrible job. The whole place would collapse and die a horrible painful death.’

A look of hurt passes over my parents’ faces, and I can’t bear to think I’ve offended them. I’m about to qualify what I’ve just said when Mum says quietly, ‘But that’s what we’re afraid of.’ She looks to the floor. ‘We’re afraid that without you keeping its head above water, Sing It Back won’t be here when we return.’ Slowly her eyes meet mine. ‘Please, darling. At least consider it. The bar is in such bad shape that it’s a risk us going in the first place, but we have to take this chance. You must understand that.’

Of course I understand it. Oh
bloody
hell.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say reluctantly. ‘I promise.’

A few seconds pass. Mum asks, ‘Have you made a decision yet?’

‘What? No, of course—’

‘It’s just we really ought to get going,’ says Dad, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ve still got a few bits and pieces to get in the car …’

Appalled, I remember the overflowing Bentley outside.

‘You’re going
now
?’

‘Our ferry’s at midnight and we’ve got to get up to Newcastle,’ explains Mum, hurrying over to the table where there’s a stack of navy blue lever arch files. She piles them into my arms. ‘Here you go, darling – this is everything you need. All the information is in there: accounts, budgets, the lot. We know you’ll do a brilliant job.’ She kisses my head and I open my mouth, but no words come out.

‘We did try to get hold of you earlier,’ she says, smiling happily. ‘We’ve been calling you all week.’ Dad disappears into the kitchen to finish ransacking the cupboards.

I don’t know if this is entirely true, but I do remember getting some missed calls a few days ago. I was too busy helping Lawrence rehearse his lines for some stupid audition, which I now really hope he doesn’t get.

As if reading my mind, Mum adds, ‘I’m sure Lawrence will be around to step in.’

I gulp. ‘Actually me and Lawrence broke up today.’

‘Oh, sweetheart!’ Mum rushes to embrace me and the corners of the files dig into my chest. I have this overwhelming urge to spend three hours in the bath and then sleep for the whole weekend. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it, Mum.’

‘But, darling—’

‘I really don’t.’

She hugs me again, longer this time. ‘I’m going to call you as soon as we get there. I’m so sorry, poppet – if I’d known …’

I nod. ‘It’s fine.’

One more squeeze. ‘I love you, darling.’

‘Sapphy, we’ve got to get moving!’ Dad charges through the living room.

‘Your father never liked him anyway,’ she whispers into my ear. Is this supposed to make me feel better?

‘Hang on a minute,’ I say, as in great haste the last of the bags are scooped up, kisses are planted on my cheeks and hair, and my parents are vanishing out the door. ‘You can’t just
go
. I mean, what about—’

‘We’ll call you when we get to Amsterdam!’

And with that, the door slams shut.

They say bad luck comes in threes. Or is that good luck?

Whatever it is, when I wake up the next day I decide I am dying. Someone’s got my head in a vice, and I’m so parched it’s like my mouth’s been given a colonic irrigation. I have an extreme desire for orange Fanta.

Pieces of the previous evening start to surface on the tides of my hangover. With a groan I remember my parents’ announcement, then how after they left I spent all of five minutes despairing over the files before raiding their drinks cabinet and unearthing half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, which I mixed with some tropical juice I found in the near-empty
fridge. (I know: yuck.) Vaguely I recall staggering back to my Camden flat on the night bus, not forgetting to conduct the obligatory drunken phone call, though thankfully (and incredibly) not to Lawrence but to Lou, to whom I think I explained what had happened, in so far as anyone can explain anything with a horrendous volume of gin pickling them from inside out.

Bollocks.

I shower and get dressed. Right, I think as I sit on my bed, concentrating on not being sick. Plan, Maddie. Come up with a plan.

OK. Not happening. My brain can barely process what’s happened over the last twenty-four hours, let alone work out how to deal with it.

Make a list. Make a list! Right. Yes. Good idea. I’ll make a list.

I grab a pen and paper and start writing:

1. Make a list

2.

Um … This is tougher than I thought. I chew the end of my Biro before continuing.

2. Eat toast covered in so much Nutella it makes me feel ill

3. Call Lou

4. Despair over horrible ex-boyfriend and disastrous career prospects

5. Weep

6. Bang fists on floor

7. Howl like a caged animal

8. Lunch time? Eat lunch

9. Sort out whole entire life please god amen

10. Deal or No Deal

Finally I add ‘Wake up’ and ‘Shower’ at the top, so I can cross the first few off and feel like I’ve got started. Hmm. It’s looking kind of OK up until the weeping part …

Quite astonishingly I managed to drag home the Sing It Back paperwork last night, so I lift one of the files from my bedside table and start flicking through. It’s pretty haphazard, but that’s to be expected: all the charts and tables are algebra to me, and there are some worrying-looking letters from the bank manager. Even so it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that the place is in deep shit. Everywhere I look there are numbers in deficit, red crosses, botched projections, unmet targets.

Lovely. Mum and Dad have left me to clean up a cesspool with nothing but a cotton bud. With a massive sigh I flip it closed, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. There’s only one thing for it:
Takeshi’s Castle
and chocolate spread.