Star Struck (29 page)

‘How did you get on?’ Claire asked, stepping to one side to let Jo into the hallway. Claire’s house was like something out of
House & Garden
. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside – a detached new build with a garage and a small manicured front lawn – but once inside it was all bold prints and warm, inviting lighting. The kitchen looked like the type that a TV company would hire for Nigella to pretend was her own. Claire could probably hire out Jake and Rosie while she was at it, they’d make great middle-class, celebrity-cook kids with names like that.

‘Don’t ask,’ Jo said, flopping onto a kitchen chair and throwing her head into her hands.

‘What? What did they say? Tell me!’ Claire said, panic-stricken.

Jo looked up, realising she had unnecessarily worried her sister. ‘Oh, Dad said that he just has to receive “ongoing treatment” as he put it. I’m guessing it’s chemotherapy but he’s not using that word so neither am I. But he came out of the hospital in better spirits than he went in.’

Jo told Claire about the morning’s events. By the time she had finished, Claire was sitting bolt upright in the chair with her mouth open, holding a spatula that she had been using to bake fairy cakes as if she was held in suspended animation.

‘So my bike has now taken up temporary residence in Chorlton,’ Jo said, finishing her story.

‘And she really didn’t give a stuff about Catherine?’

‘Didn’t seem to.’ Jo shrugged.

Claire bit her lip. ‘She is unbelievable,’ she said quietly. ‘You know she wasn’t always like this, don’t you?’ Claire said, as if she wanted to wipe all of Jo’s troubles away for her.

‘You don’t have to lie about Mum to make me feel better, you know, I can handle how she is. I just wish I hadn’t gone. It’s like picking a scab every time I see her.’

‘I’m not lying. I’m not saying she was perfect, she wasn’t. But when we were younger, when you were a baby, she was just a mum. Like every other mum. She did mum things; laughed with us, shouted at us. Just mum things, you know?’ Claire said sadly.

‘I can’t really remember.’

By the time Jo was a year old Karen had already started
going
to her weekly Women’s Forum meetings and going on Poll Tax demonstrations. She might have done lots of ‘mum things’ but Jo’s overall memory of her mother as a little girl was of her being angry at someone or something. She was always going on about empowering herself, Jo recalled. As if she had been shackled to the kitchen sink and Mick had hidden all the lighters so she couldn’t burn her bra.

‘Do you remember being dressed up like ET?’ Claire asked.

Jo loved that film and Claire saying this rang some vague bell but she couldn’t place the memory.

‘Mum put a sheet around you and stuck you in the shopping basket at the front of her bike. It was a full moon and we all rode along on our bikes telling you we were going to find the spaceship that was leaving from the rec.’

Jo laughed at the thought. ‘Mum did that?’

‘I thought you’d remember …’

Jo felt a sad pang for her childhood. ‘No. I just remember Mum being difficult and being more bothered about things going on outside the house than in.’

‘That was always a bit of a problem with her, wasn’t it?’ Claire said, getting up and going over to her cake mix. After a few moments of stirring the mixture in silence, Claire asked, without turning around, ‘Did she mention the kids?’

‘Yes,’ Jo lied. ‘She asked how they were getting on and I said she should come over and stop pretending that life in Flixton stopped when she left.’

‘She’s been over a couple of times,’ Claire said. Jo felt
that
her sister was making excuses for their mother. ‘She’s OK when she’s here, always buys the kids something nice …’ Claire trailed off. This was something that they all did, Jo acknowledged; be deeply angry at Karen one minute and the next they would make excuses up for her as if giving their own perspective on Karen’s behaviour made it somehow more bearable.

‘Does she know about Dad’s cancer?’

Jo thought about this for a moment and then decided to avoid the truth for now. ‘I’m sure he won’t want Mum knowing.’

‘That’s understandable.’

Jo picked at her nail varnish and wondered why she had just felt the need to lie to Claire. But she knew that if she told Claire that her father
had
told Karen and her mother’s response had been less than helpful, then she would have to face two ugly truths: that her mum couldn’t be called on to have a heart in any situation and her dad was willing to use his illness as a bargaining chip for his ex-wife’s affections.

Chapter 13

‘I’VE JUST STOOD
in horse shit!’ Star complained.

It was their third day in New York and the final twenty-four contestants had been on the go from the moment they arrived. Catherine thought there might have been room for a bit of a look around the city, or at least the chance to be un-chaperoned for more than a minute of the day. But their schedule had been relentless. One good thing about that was that Andy had stayed true to his word and kept his distance. She had seen him once or twice but he had always been accompanying Jason or chatting amiably to another contestant – probably trying to worm his way in to their affections, or their pants – and they had simply avoided speaking.

Catherine was now exhausted. She had been singing for at least three hours each day and in between her vocal coaching lessons she had been primped and preened by a team of stylists and run ragged by Antonia and her team of exercise sadists. She now had bright white teeth and having stuck to her allotted thousand calories a day – and fitness regime – her size fourteen jeans were hanging off her. She also had long hair extensions that made her look, freakily enough, a lot like Jo. Catherine would never have thought that in a million years she would ever look like her younger sister. But then again she didn’t think anyone would spend in excess of five thousand pounds grooming
her
and that she would have complemented the effect by starving herself. It was all beginning to worry her a little. She had just wanted to sing, but now she was definitely letting the
Star Maker
effect take hold.

She and the other finalists were now standing in the middle of Central Park, being photographed alongside the famous horse-drawn carriages for the charity single they had recorded that day for Horse Aid, Richard Forster’s favourite charity. He had had to explain that the money went to poor countries where horses were the main work animal in cut off villages, not – as Star had thought – on race horses and Shire horses and the like. The song was terrible, Catherine thought. It was the words from the famous speech by Richard III offering his kingdom for a horse set to the theme tune to
Black Beauty
. Even when they were recording it and trying not to laugh at the over-worthy sentiment of it all, grown men who worked in production had tears in their eyes and Catherine knew that this awful record would undoubtedly sell like hot cakes.

Star hobbled out of the shot with her shoe in her hand, shaking her head.

‘We’re finished anyway,’ the photographer told them.

‘What now?’ Kim asked Will. Their agenda was so regimented, there was bound to be something.

Will looked at the itinerary on his iPhone. ‘Back to the homestead and then we’ll just be doing some media training with you for tonight, especially you guys.’

Tonight was the first airing of
Star Maker
and for the past few days the production team had been trying to impress on the contestants that they would have to be prepared for the public onslaught of interest.

‘Why us?’ Catherine asked.

‘You’re the under-twenty-fives. The overs never win and no one cares about them. They’re just here to make it look like we’re being inclusive.’

Catherine took this information in. She was beginning to think that her dad had a point, that this was a machine and she was quietly accepting her place in it. ‘Then for the next two weeks until the first live final the day will look like this.’ Will pushed his iPhone in front of Catherine. It informed them that they would be up every morning at six, in the gym until eight, they would sing for two hours and break for lunch, sing for another two hours and break for dinner, work through their songs in the evening and lights would be out at ten.

‘Every day?’ Kim asked. ‘But can’t we have a day off to go sight-seeing?’

‘Oh, you are going sight-seeing …’ Will tapped the screen ‘… on Thursday, with the camera crew.’

‘Can’t we go on our own?’ Catherine asked, feeling not a little bit caged.

‘Believe me,’ Will said ominously, ‘once this hits the screen tonight, you guys won’t want to go anywhere on your own.’

‘What do you mean?’ Catherine asked.

‘You’ll be mobbed everywhere you go.’

The girls looked at one another. They didn’t need to say anything, they were thinking the same thing; they were scared.

Chapter 14

‘OH MY GOD,
I am so excited!’ Jo said, jumping in front of the telly. ‘Catherine is going to be famous and all the losers from her school will see her and wish that they weren’t such sad cases.’

It was the first showing of
Star Maker
and Jo was beside herself with anticipation. The auditions were her favourite bit; the live finals were boring. Who cares about people who can sing – unless it was your sister of course – bring on the divvies who couldn’t hold a tune, that’s what Jo thought.

‘Sit down! All I can see is your fat arse,’ Maria shouted.

‘That is hardly a fat arse, is it?’ Claire asked.

‘At least my arse is in the right place, someone seems to have slapped yours and put it where your face should be,’ Jo said, flicking Maria a V.

‘Jesus, tonight, will you all sit down and give this moment the gravitas it deserves,’ Mick huffed. ‘Sometimes I wonder were you brought up or dragged up.’

‘Dragged up,’ the sisters said in unison.

Claire topped everyone’s wine glass up. She was eager to ply everyone with as much drink as possible, as she had a pass out tonight. Paul was looking after the kids and she was staying over in Catherine’s room. Jo also assumed that her sister wanted to be pie-eyed in order to take the edge off her TV debut.

The
Star Maker
music began to play; a rousing, galloping romp of a tune. Then the voice over kicked in, ‘It’s back, and this time it’s bigger than ever …
Star Maker
…’ There was a pause as the music continued, ‘
Transatlantic
.’

‘Woo hoo!’ Jo shouted. The others cheered. The camera panned over the crowd queuing to get into one of the audition venues. Then the judges were introduced.

‘It’s your best mates, Dad, look.’

‘Shut it, Joanna. That lot wouldn’t know talent if it sat on them.’

Jo looked at her dad, confused. ‘What you on about? They put Catherine through.’

‘Well, they were rude to us, weren’t they? Shower of shites.’

‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish? Just because someone tells you to sling your hook, doesn’t mean they don’t know what talent is. You talk some bollocks.’

‘Eh!’ Mick protested.

‘Oh my God, it’s Catherine!’ Claire screamed.

‘First up. It can’t be.’

‘It was her, it just showed her for a split second.’

‘Maybe we are on tonight then,’ Maria said, sounding pleased.

‘You just want to see what your orange mug looks like on the telly.’

‘I just want to see what your ugly mug looks like on the telly.’

Jo ignored her sister.

‘Shrek probably,’ Maria goaded.

‘Yes, I always get told I look like Shrek,’ Jo agreed.

They waited and waited. The first part of the show was full of the usual halfwits who couldn’t hold a note but still thought that it was a good idea to go on national TV and sing a Céline Dion number. The second part saw a few people who could sing being put through to Boot Camp.

‘Weird, our Catherine knows them,’ Jo mused.

The third part was a mix of those who could sing and those who couldn’t. The thing that made it different from other years was that the English halfwits were intercut with American ones. They really did everything bigger and better over there, Jo thought, impressed; even their halfwits. After the ad break for the final part of the show, Jo began to lose interest, convinced that this wasn’t Catherine’s night, maybe tomorrow. She was just about to go to the toilet as she’d been holding a wee in for the past two hours, when Maria squealed and Jo saw that Catherine was on the TV walking towards the judges. They then cut to the rest of her family as if they had been waiting outside all along. ‘Oh my God!’ Jo screamed.

‘She’s our sister,’ Maria was saying to Jason P. Longford.

‘Oh my God, I sound like a right common cow,’ Maria said, shocked.

‘And?’ Jo asked.

Claire shushed the pair. ‘And what’s your name?’ Richard Forster was asking.

‘It’s Catherine Reilly.’

Jo was sitting glued to the TV, her knees tucked under her chin, biting them nervously. She couldn’t believe it, up until now she knew that Catherine was part of the
Star Maker
show this year, but it hadn’t really sunk in.
Now,
sitting here watching her sister on TV, wearing
her
dress, the reality of the situation was finally dawning on Jo.

Jo had no idea why she was so nervous. Her sister was happily tucked away in New York. Then she realised why she was nervous, as the camera returned to her and the rest of the family. Jason P. Longford seemed uncharacteristically speechless and Mick was taking centre stage ranting and demanding to be allowed in the room. The way the scene was edited made them all look as nuts as their father; all shoulder-barging and out-of-my-way northern bravado. They fell through the door and Mick began his tirade against the judges and each sister let out a loud groan.

‘What?’ Mick asked defiantly. ‘We did her a favour. She got through didn’t she?’

‘I don’t really think it’s any thanks to you, do you Dad?’

Jo watched through her fingers as Mick shouted at Richard Forster about being a robber baron and about being out of the music business quicker than he could say Gareth Gates. Then they were out and unbeknownst to any of the Reillys they had been filmed complaining, mumbling and arguing all the way to the car. Then the camera cut to Catherine, who sang and was told she wasn’t quite what they were looking for.