The Bex Factor (18 page)

He rings off before I have a chance to ask him about them, but I’d really like to know if some of the rumours are true. Every day there’s a new story about
The Tingle Factor
in Dad’s newspaper. First it turned out the twins might have been drug dealers, and then yesterday Phil Carvery was on the front page. He seemed like such a nice guy, but I don’t think
many people will be voting for him now they know he was driving the car that crippled his wife – especially as he’d probably been drinking.

‘Oi, Bex,’ shouts Kyle. ‘It’s Shezza.’

‘Send her up,’ I call, hoping she doesn’t still want me to blag tickets for the final.

‘Look at this,’ says Shezza, bursting into my bedroom and waving the paper at me like I’m an annoying wasp. ‘I knew that girl was a whatshername in sheep’s
clothing.’

‘What is it?’

She hands me the paper. ‘Page four,’ she says, looking at me as though someone’s died. ‘I’m sorry, Bex. I’m not enjoying this, you know.’

I flick through until I find the picture of how Matt and Twilight
might
have looked ‘enjoying a quiet smooch in the VIP lounge of an exclusive London nightclub’.

Even though the body of the bloke in the picture looks at least three inches taller than Matthew, I still feel kind of empty when I read the headline:

THAT’S WHY THE BABY
LOVES THE VAMP.

Matthew

We shot the video for ‘Greatest Love of All’ at London Zoo. Twilight was brilliant with the kids from the hospice, pointing out the rarest lizards in the reptile
house and encouraging them to sit next to her in every shot. But halfway through filming, Nikki decided that the children didn’t look sick enough, and we had to wait over an hour for their
replacements to arrive.

That’s why we’re late when we pull up outside a kebab shop on Archway Road. Nikki jumps out of the cab, followed by the film crew. ‘This had better be worth it, Matt,’
she says, pressing the entry-phone for the flats above the shop.

‘I’m just coming down,’ says a crackly voice.

At least Dad has shaved. ‘Hi, son.’ He nods, as we step into the smelly hallway.

‘You must be Mervyn,’ says Nikki. ‘Matt’s lovely father.’

‘It’s Melvin, actually,’ says Dad, his tongue almost hitting the floor. ‘And you must be Nikki. I love your work.’

‘Why, thank you,’ says Nikki. ‘Now, perhaps you’d like to give us the tour.’

‘It’s not much I’m afraid,’ says Dad, leading us up two flights of rickety wooden stairs. ‘This is it, our humble abode.’

He’s not joking either. I didn’t believe it when he said he was skint, but looking round at this place, I’m starting to change my mind. There’s a bed under the window, a
kitchen in the corner – only I’m guessing Dad doesn’t use it much because the whole flat is littered with takeaway cartons.

‘See that, Matthew,’ says Dad, who’s obviously spotted me studying the damp patch outside the toilet door. ‘I can watch television in bed. Cool, eh?’

‘I can see why you weren’t keen for us to come here,’ says Nikki, with a glint in her eyes. ‘It’s better than I . . . I mean, worse than I could possibly have
imagined. Where do you sleep, Matt?’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘We keep the camp bed in the cupboard,’ says Dad. ‘Now, can I get you a cuppa?’

‘
No
. . . Thanks,’ says Nikki, holding a tissue up to her mouth. ‘Now listen, Mervyn, has Matt told you what we’re looking for here?’

Dad was a bit iffy on the phone, but when I told him he’d get to meet Nikki Hardbody, he eventually decided to go along with it. I’m not asking him to lie exactly, just to be careful
which parts of the truth he reveals – like Mum’s MS, for instance. Twilight agreed it was the only possible solution and even though I’ve been having pangs of guilt ever since,
I’m pretty sure it’s for the best.

‘Yes,’ says Dad, catching my eye for a second. ‘I think I know the kind of thing you’re after. Now where would you like me – in the armchair?’

‘Fab,’ says Nikki. ‘We’ll just set the camera running and you can talk for as long as you like. Don’t worry, you won’t recognise yourself when you see the
edit.’

Dad flops down in the armchair and clears his throat. ‘I know it’s been hard for Matthew . . .
Matt
, but I’m so proud of him. I’ll never forget the day he was
born. It was one of those grey May mornings when . . .’

Twenty minutes later, Dad runs out of steam. ‘Was that all right, Nikki?’ he says.

‘Oh yes,’ she yawns. ‘That was perfect.’

‘Look, before you go,’ says Dad, reaching down the side of the armchair. ‘We need to talk graphics.’

‘Do we?’ says Nikki.

Dad hands Nikki another business card. ‘I don’t know if you heard, but I run my own graphics company – Instant Graphixication. Perhaps you saw the work I did for The Rawlplugs
and Adhesives Channel. I’ve put together a few ideas for the next series of
Tingle Factor
. I’d love to talk you through them sometime.’

‘Super,’ says Nikki. ‘Tell you what, Mervyn – I won’t have a lot of time at the studios, so why don’t you pop into Matt’s party on Sunday
afternoon?’

Dad looks confused. ‘His what?’

‘It’s his birthday, isn’t it?’ says Nikki.

‘Is it?’ says Dad. ‘Yes, yes of course it is.’

‘Perhaps we can talk then,’ says Nikki, backing away from him. ‘I’ll send a car for you.’

‘See you on Saturday night, Matthew,’ says Dad, as I follow Nikki to the door.

‘Yes all right,’ I say, not really relishing the prospect of seeing him in the audience.

‘Oh and son,’ says Dad, sounding pathetically upbeat (which according to Mr Packham is probably an oxymoron), ‘thanks a lot for this.’

Bex

Emily begged me to stay for the semi-final. I’d rather watch it at home, but Sue Layton’s been so fed-up this week, that I can’t wait to see her face when
Matthew mentions his family tonight, like he promised me.

‘Perhaps we should all go to London tomorrow,’ I say, knowing she won’t be half as grumpy after she’s seen the show. ‘I’ve got Matthew a present and
everything. We could go on the train.’

‘Can we, Mum?’ says Emily. ‘It would be so cool to see inside the Celebrity Conservatoire.’

Mrs Layton shakes her head. ‘Look, I told you, I’m not leaving this house while I still need that wheelchair. Now for God’s sake, let me watch in peace.’

‘Welcome to semi-final week,’ says Willow Strawberry, waiting for the cheers and explosions to die down. ‘The atmosphere in the studio tonight is electric. But before we meet
the judges’ (‘We love you, Justin,’ shouts someone in the audience) ‘we thought you might like to see what’s been happening this week. Now, with so much at
stake
, you’d probably expect our contestants to be at each others’
throats.
’ Willow Strawberry winks at the camera and raises her eyebrow. ‘So no one was more
surprised than yours truly, when a little bird told me that love was in the air.’

‘Look,’ says Emily. ‘It’s Matthew.’

‘And that’s the Twilight girl, isn’t it?’ says Mrs Layton.

The whole audience goes ‘Ahhh’ when they see the stupid, slow-motion sequence of Matthew and Twilight walking past a load of penguins to a song called ‘It Must Be Love’.
He stares geekily at her while she flicks hair out of her eyes and smiles. Then there’s a short interview with Twilight where someone asks if she and Matthew are an item. ‘That would be
telling,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘But we’re having a party for his birthday tomorrow afternoon. He’s fifteen, and never been kissed. Let’s just say – if
I’m still in the Conservatoire tomorrow – I might just have to put that right.’

The audience goes, ‘Whooo’.

‘Why don’t
we
go to the party?’ I say, surprised at just how jealous I feel. ‘I could give Matthew
my
present.’

‘I’ve told you, I have no intention of leaving this house,’ says Mrs Layton.

Twilight sings ‘The First Cut Is the Deepest’. At the end, she bites into the neck of the boy dancer and fake blood dribbles down his bare chest. I know I should hate her, but when
she tells the story about spending Christmas in intensive care with her mum, I can’t help hoping she makes it to the final. Not that there’s any doubt about it: Phil Carvery even gets a
few boos and Justin tells Elizabeth McQueen that he had a good idea what everyone in the audience was thinking when she started singing ‘Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?’

‘Next up is the lovely Matt,’ says Willow Strawberry. ‘Apart from a certain lady vampire,’ (She raises her eyebrow – again.) ‘Matt’s also been thinking
about another very special person this week. Take a look at this.’

‘I
wonder
who she’s talking about?’ I say, looking across at Mrs Layton and feeling dead excited for her.

Weird thing is, she doesn’t look that excited herself. ‘God give me strength.’

‘Look, Mum,’ says Emily. ‘It’s Dad. What’s he doing on the telly?’

The camera picks out a skanky pair of underpants on the radiator before turning to the man in the armchair who’s got Matthew’s nose. He fiddles with his wedding ring and speaks
straight into the camera: ‘I know it’s been hard for Matthew . . .
Matt
, but I’m so proud of him. He’s all I’ve got left. You see, I had it all, lovely family,
beautiful wife, my company – INSTANT GRAPHIXICATION – was really successful, but then everything started to go wrong. You see I was . . .’

And when it’s over, Mrs Layton can hardly speak. ‘How could he do that to me?’

I pretend not to notice, but she cries all the way through ‘I Don’t Want To Talk About It’. As soon as Matthew finishes, the camera picks out his dad in the audience.
He’s wearing an
I
’
m a FaMATTic
T-shirt, and sobbing like an actress at the Oscars as he leads the whole audience in a standing ovation. After a performance like that, his
son’s place in the final is guaranteed.

‘Right, that’s it,’ says Mrs Layton, zapping her husband with the remote. ‘I don’t care how bloody stupid I look. They are
not
going to get away with this.
Emily, go and do your teeth, we need to be up early. Bex, go and make sure my wheelchair’s ready. We’re going to London tomorrow.’