Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (8 page)

I choose my words carefully. ‘It’s certainly very exciting. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful for the right establishment.’

Evan leans forward. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve agreed to meet with you.’

It strikes me as an odd thing to say. ‘Haven’t you met with everyone?’

Evan laughs, throwing his head back so I can see the roof of his mouth, which is covered in tiny grooves, as if he bites down hard on things.

‘Goodness me, no!’ he cries. ‘Maddie, I’m an extremely busy man … No, I
wanted
to speak with you, in fact I made a
point of cancelling my morning’s meetings – because I believe you have exactly what I’m looking for.’

‘I do?’

‘Yes.’ He sits back and touches the tips of his fingers together like the roof of a house. ‘My assistant told me the name of your club.’

There’s a loaded pause. ‘Right …’

The lids of his eyes come down like little hoods. ‘Your parents own it, is that correct?’

Ah. Suddenly I see where this is going.

‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘But this has nothing to do with Pineapple Mist. Sing It Back is independent – in fact Mum and Dad aren’t even here at the moment, they’re on tour.’

As soon as the words escape I wish I could take them back. Evan’s eyes actually light up.

‘Really?’ His voice is syrupy.

‘Not for long,’ I say, fumbling to unpick it. ‘I mean, they’ll be back soon, obviously—’

‘But in the meantime, you’re in charge.’

Another pause. Evan’s fingers start tapping. He appears deep in thought, and he looks at me so intently and for such a long time that I swear I’m about to start laughing.

‘Let’s talk about the show,’ he decides at last, standing up and clapping his hands together. ‘I want to start filming ASAP’ – he doesn’t say the initials; he says it like ‘ay-sap’ – ‘which means I want my people at the club as early as Friday. I’m not a man for hanging around, as you might already have guessed.’

I sit up straighter. ‘Mr Bergman—’

‘Evan.’

‘—we haven’t agreed to anything yet. I was hoping today would give me a better idea of what the proposition entails. It’s a big commitment …’

‘But you did make the phone call?’

I’m slightly baffled. ‘Well, yes, but purely on a speculative—’

‘There’s little time for speculation in TV, Maddie.’ The words have an edge of impatience. ‘This isn’t a go-away-and-think-about-it sort of an offer. Like I said, you’ll want to grab this with both hands and hold on tight.’

He’s still smiling but the words are hard. I meet his gaze, refusing to feel intimidated. Wait till I tell Lou about this – this guy’s got to have a gazillion issues. Starting with the hair.

‘Even so, I know the importance of formalities,’ Evan says, adopting a softer tone. He perches on the end of his desk, his crotch level with my eyes. ‘Think of it like one big happy family: you, the club – and us. Eight weeks, two months … a lifetime of success for your parents. And you
do
want that for them, don’t you?’

I frown. ‘Of course.’

‘They’re not getting any younger, there’s retirement to think about …’ He lets his words trail off, before resuming with gusto: ‘The bottom line is you’ll hardly even notice we’re there. All you have to do is open your doors and let us document a few bits and pieces’ – he says this with a casual wave of his hands, as if this aspect of things is incidental – ‘and that’s about the size of it. We’ll fund the design, the renovations, the plans you have in mind.’ Another grin. ‘And I’m betting you have plans …?’

I nod, feeling like I’m saying yes to more than the question.

‘As I thought.’ Evan rubs his hands together, satisfied. ‘You’re a woman who’s going places. Every woman who’s going places needs to have a plan.’

I’m not sure what to say to that.

I attempt to put the conversation back on track. ‘There’s going to be a privacy issue.’

Evan shakes his head, as if I’ve caught the wrong end of the stick. ‘No, you see that’s the great beauty of it. You’ll carry on with your normal little lives and it won’t occur to you to worry about the cameras. I guarantee you’ll have better things to do. You’ll have a club to run, remember? A very,
very
successful club.’

‘Yes, but that’s not really—’

‘Maddie’ – he smirks – ‘we promise you a comeback beyond your wildest dreams and we’ll deliver it. What else could you want? You must know the saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth.’ He fixes me with a potent stare. ‘Now don’t tell me you’re planning to look
me
in the mouth?’

I wonder if I should tell him that I’ve already looked in his mouth, in fact, and I didn’t much like what I saw.

‘We’re offering to help you – and your parents – resurrect Sing It Back and make stars of you all. Just tell me how good that sounds.’ He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nostrils. ‘Come on, tell me.’

‘Uh …’

‘Precisely. It’s the best thing that could happen to you.’ His eyes snap open. ‘Isn’t it?’

I feel like I’m throwing a Frisbee and it’s never coming back. ‘The publicity concerns me,’ I grind on, beating my way
through his nonsense. ‘We want your help, but none of us,’ I stop, remembering Jaz, ‘I mean
most
of us don’t want to be stars.’

Evan chuckles and shakes his head, as though I’ve missed something glaringly obvious.

‘No, no, no: the
club
is the star of the show, haven’t I made that clear? You’ll just be … on the fringes. Obviously there’ll be a certain level of interest generated in the people running the place, but the fascination will be with its revival. Isn’t that what this is about?’

I’m not convinced. ‘But it’s reality TV – of course it’s about the people.’

‘Didn’t our ad say we were looking for the next big thing?’

I nod.

‘Well, then, you’ve answered your own question.’

I have?

‘This is something new,’ he goes on, ‘it’s revolutionary. I guarantee Sing It Back will never have known attention like it.’ He returns to his side of the desk and opens a drawer, pulling out a steel-grey folder. He slides it across to me.

‘What’s this?’

‘The contract. All the information, everything you need.’ He narrows his eyes and I can tell he’s sussing me out. ‘You’re a woman who likes to mull things over, I respect that.’

I wish he’d stop telling me what kind of woman I am.

He slips me his business card. ‘Now I don’t normally do this, Maddie, but I like you and I think you like me.’

Er …
what?

‘So I’m prepared to do something unprecedented. I’m
prepared to wait,’ he glances at his watch, ‘until six o’clock this evening.’ There’s a meaningful pause. ‘You’re first in a tremendously long queue. I’m sure you’ll do the sensible thing.’

He rises, holding out his hand. This time when I take it it’s hot and clammy.

‘Please don’t mention it, Maddie. The pleasure was all mine.’

‘Um … sure.’

Evan’s face looms in as he places his other hand on top of mine, holding it tight.

‘Call me when you’re ready to say yes.’

When I emerge into reception the girl called Alison has gone. There’s a young guy with a lip piercing in her place and he tosses me a disinterested nod as I hurry past.

Evan Bergman’s folder is heavy in my arms as I pick my way back downstairs. I open it and haul out the bulky contract, holding the file under my chin as I flip through the first few pages. Scanning the general terms and not at all looking where I’m going, I push open the main door and walk straight into someone coming in.

Someone absolutely, totally and utterly to die for.

Words fail me. Until I realise I’ve spilled his coffee all down his shirt.

‘Shit!’ I say. ‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry. Shit!’

Say something else, Maddie. Anything but ‘shit’
.

‘Shit!’

‘It’s OK,’ he laughs. Wow, he’s properly gorgeous. He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. Ever.

‘I really am sorry,’ I gabble, and I know I’m acting like a dick. ‘I wasn’t looking where I was going.’ I attempt to shove the contract back inside its folder and suddenly it seems about a thousand pages long, like bundling some thrashing animal back into its cage.

‘Seriously, don’t worry about it.’ He looks at me and my legs go funny. He’s quite a bit taller, with really dark hair and eyes the colour of slate. ‘I’ve got another one upstairs.’

‘Another coffee?’ As soon as the words come out I know I’m taking my dickish behaviour to a new level of dickdom. ‘I mean, otherwise I’ll get you another, of course, since it’s my fault. I know, I’ll go buy you one, it’s really no trouble. Where’d you go? What was it? Do you take sugar?’

Shut UP! Shut up shut up shut up!

He grins. He’s got really nice teeth. ‘Another shirt.’

An image of this man bare-chested isn’t what I need right now. ‘You work at Tooth & Nail?’

‘For my sins.’

I swear I’ve seen him before. But maybe it’s because he resembles fifty male models rolled into one with a splash of Johnny Depp.

‘That’s a nice pear,’ he says, looking at my chest.

What? Ugh. I should have known he was too good to be true.

‘Are you a fan?’ he asks, and then I realise he’s talking about the vintage pear-shaped brooch I pilfered from Mum’s collection this morning. The fruit itself is modest, about the size of a Cadbury’s Creme Egg, and made of silvery wire mesh. It’s been set on a plain white square.

‘Oh,’ I say, flustered. Then I’m confused. ‘A fan of what?’

‘M People.’

I’m horrified. ‘
M People?
’

He nods, serious. ‘Yeah, that’s one of their album covers.’

For a second I’m speechless. ‘It’s
what
?’

‘I used to work in music journalism,’ he explains. ‘That was quite an iconic look in the nineties, very distinctive.’

I want the ground to open up and swallow me. Thanks, Mum, I mean it. Thanks. Really, this couldn’t be better.

‘Yeah, it set a new trend in cover art,’ he says. ‘Less is more, you know.’

‘It did?’ I ask in a small voice. A Heather Small voice.

Arrrrggghhh!

‘You must really like them,’ he says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that suggests he’s trying not to laugh.

‘I most certainly do
not
!’ I puff.

‘Not a big fan myself,’ he muses, ‘though I guess I can see it.’

I look down at the sorry brooch. ‘It’s not mine,’ I say defensively, and even though it’s the truth it sounds like the biggest lie I ever told. ‘It’s my mum’s.’ Could I
be
any more tragic?

‘Well anyway,’ he says, gesturing to his damp shirt.

Clutching the folder to my chest, I muster as much
confidence as I can. ‘Yes, of course,’ I sound ridiculously formal, ‘I mustn’t keep you. And listen, I’m sorry.’

He waves away my apology. ‘It’s no big deal, really.’ Then he smiles at me again and he’s got these lovely crinkly bits at the sides of his eyes.

There’s a fraction of a second where neither of us moves. Just a fraction of a fraction, so that I’m not entirely sure it’s there, before he moves past me and disappears inside.

I think I might have just fallen in love.