The Bex Factor (14 page)

‘So come on, Matt. How are you enjoying yourself in the Celebrity Conservatoire?’

‘Amazing, incredible; I’m having the best time of my life.’

As soon as the lines are closed, we race upstairs with a bag of popcorn for the results show.

Shezza goes mental, but after the judges’ comments, it’s not exactly a surprise when Willow Strawberry tells Matthew, ‘You could
still
have
The Tingle
Factor
’ and he joins Twilight and the others in the winners’ enclosure.

No one ever remembers who gets knocked out first. Just for the record it’s Soul Survivorz. The judges save Bart Smedley, which means that Roxanne is out too. But I don’t hear much of
her speech about the amazing, amazing journey, because I can’t stop worrying about Matthew.

I really liked the way he treated his music so seriously. And he never seemed to realise how talented he was. So how come he suddenly sounds so up himself? Something’s the matter with him,
and I need to find out what it is.

Matthew

The dance studio is much quieter now that Soul Survivorz have gone. The twins Trevor and Ashley (or Trash as everybody calls them now) try to lighten the mood by hiding the
choreographer’s asthma inhaler, but the atmosphere is already pretty tense by the time he’s finished showing us the steps for ‘Hard Knock Life’ and Nikki arrives for our
tutorial.

‘Right,’ she says, waving away the last cameraman. ‘Show Songs Week is where we sort out the men from the boys.’

‘Told you,’ says Bart Smedley. ‘Musical theatre isn’t just a walk in the park, you know.’

‘Shut up, Bart,’ says Nikki. ‘We haven’t got time for —’

‘Excuse me,’ says Elizabeth McQueen. ‘Can I ask you something, please?’

‘What is it now?’

‘Could I not do a folk song this week?’

Nikki’s smile twitches at the edges. ‘I thought we talked about this.
Phantom of the Opera
is perfect for you. In fact, that’s really what this morning is all about. You
see, I like to think of week two as ‘getting to know you’ week. Who can tell me what I mean by that?’

If anyone deserves to win
The Tingle Factor
, it’s Twilight. Yesterday, on the way to the shopping mall, most of the others were acting all silly about riding in a limo, but Twilight
wouldn’t even talk to me because she wanted to save all her energy for her fans. ‘Talent can only get you so far,’ she says now, flicking through her notebook. ‘At some
point you have to start sharing the back-story.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ purrs Nikki. ‘But before we start, I want to make one thing very clear. Unlike some shows, we are not in the business of shameless
exploitation. I’m not interested in your sob stories. I’m looking for something . . . inspirational; something you’ve had to deal with perhaps; something that will show the public
exactly what you’re all about. Now who’s going to start the ball rolling?’

‘People used to make fun of us because we were different,’ says Yvette from UP4IT.

‘People used to make fun of us because we were exactly the same,’ says Trevor or Ashley.

Nikki nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes, both of those have potential, but I really need something more specific. Anyone?’

‘How about when someone pushes you off a table because they’re jealous of your talent?’ says Bart.

Nikki bares her teeth. ‘For the last time, Bart, it was an accident. And if you persist in making these unfounded allegations, I’ll be forced to have a quiet word with our lawyers.
Now, someone else please.’

Elizabeth McQueen has her hand up.

‘It’s all right, Elizabeth,’ says Nikki. ‘I think we can all imagine the cross you’ve had to bear. How about you, Phil?’

Phil Carvery squirms uneasily on his PE mat. ‘It’s not something I really like talking about.’

‘Go on,’ says Nikki.

‘Well, a few years back, my wife, Carol, was involved in a nasty car accident.’

‘We’ll get her into the studio next week,’ says Nikki. ‘Was there any permanent damage – some scarring perhaps?’

‘No, thank goodness,’ says Phil, with a huge smile. ‘My Caz is right as rain now.’

‘I’m so pleased for you,’ says Nikki. ‘Right, who’s next?’

Twilight’s account of her mum’s illness is so heart-breaking that even the twins sit open-mouthed, trying to take it all in. It kind of explains a lot. Now I
know
we’ve
got something in common.

‘I’m sorry,’ sobs Twilight. ‘Do you mind if I take a break? This is all a bit . . .’

‘You poor wee girl,’ says Elizabeth McQueen, crawling across the PE mats and handing her a crumpled handkerchief.

‘And I thought I’d had it bad,’ shrugs Phil Carvery.

‘Thank you, that was perfect, Twilight,’ says Nikki dreamily. ‘Now come along, Matt; you’ve heard the others. What have you got for me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing will come of nothing,’ says Nikki, her face deflating like a punctured beach ball. ‘Have another go.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t really know what to say.’

‘Then you’d better think of something,’ says Nikki, coldly. ‘If you still want to be here next week that is.’

Too right I do. Nikki keeps reminding me that if I get to the final I could have any girlfriend I want. And no prizes for guessing which particular girl I’m thinking of. But I can’t
talk about Mum – at least, not here in front of that lot. There’s only one person I want to share my back-story with; the one person who could possibly understand. That’s why I
make a pact with myself:
If you
’
re really serious about her, you
’
ve got to tell Twilight
.

It’s not until the afternoon that I get my chance. Our tutor, Mr Packham, whose lessons get duller by the second, tries to explain that an oxymoron is a ‘figure of
speech in which two contradictory terms appear side by side, like “act naturally” or “pretty ugly”’. When he asks for examples, I come up with ‘Mr Packham’
and ‘hair’ but things turn nasty when Bart suggests ‘nice Twilight’ and she hits back with ‘talented Bart’.

It all gets a bit personal, so Mr Packham decides that before the taxis arrive to take us to the fashion show, it might be best if we pop down to the health suite to cool off with a swim.
Bart’s arm is still in plaster, so Mrs Magwicz takes him shopping for new tap shoes while the three of us head down to the basement.

Twilight comes down here every morning, but I didn’t pack for a two week holiday in Ibiza, so I have to borrow some trunks from the personal trainer guy. Mr Packham soon falls asleep on
one of the loungers, while Twilight glides effortlessly through the chlorine-scented water and I splash about, trying not to get out of my depth.

‘I know about your mum,’ I say, when she gets back to the shallow end. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me.’

‘What are you talking about?’ says Twilight, who looks so much healthier without her make-up. ‘Has Bart been —?’

‘I knew you didn’t hate her.’

Twilight spits out a mouthful of water. ‘You must have misheard me. I never said I —’

‘It’s OK, I understand, it gets like that sometimes. I’m not saying I’ve been through everything you have – how could I? – but I have got a pretty good idea
what it feels like.’

‘You have?’

Telling her is so much easier than I thought. ‘My mum’s got multiple sclerosis. Dad and her split up, so I have to act as her carer sometimes. It’s no big deal or anything, but
it can be a bit full on sometimes – especially when she has a flare-up.’

‘Oh right,’ says Twilight, sounding relieved that someone else is in the same boat. ‘Wait a minute. Why didn’t you tell Nikki about this?’

‘I’m not as brave as you are,’ I say, trying to keep my eyes above the waterline. ‘I just find it very difficult to talk about. Why, do you think I
should
tell
her?’

‘No,’ says Twilight, just loud enough to make Mr Packham twitch in his sleep. ‘I mean, not if you don’t want to.’

‘Not really. I’d rather keep it to myself.’

Twilight smiles and places her hand on my shoulder; a tingle of electricity fizzes up my spine. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve told me. We can talk about it any time. It can be our
little secret, if you like.’

‘Yeah . . . I’d like that.’

‘And anyway,’ she says, rolling on to her back and striking out for the deep end. ‘I don’t think it’s really the sort of thing Nikki was talking about.’

Bex

I should have guessed when I asked her, that Sue Layton’s life story would be well depressing.

‘We were in Paris, queuing for the Musée D’Orsay,’ she says, handing me a plate, which I rinse before passing it to Emily, who stacks it in the dishwasher. ‘Little
Em was just a baby. Melvin thought I could do with a break.’

‘I’ve never been abroad,’ I say. ‘Except with the school – to see the war graves.’

‘You ought to go,’ says Emily. ‘Mum says travel broadens the mind.’