The Bex Factor (8 page)

‘Part-time cleaner.’

Shezza raises one of her carefully plucked eyebrows. ‘Do me a favour. You’re fourteen years old, Bex. That’s, like, totally illegal, that is. There’s more chance of your
first album going platinum.’

‘Ha, ha.’

‘Come on. Where are you really going?’

‘All right,’ I say, wondering how high she could get that eyebrow if I told her I was on my way to cook tea for Matthew Layton’s mum. ‘I’m going up the park to take
some photos for my art project.’

‘That’s more like it,’ says Shezza, smiling triumphantly. ‘Good old Miss Gifted and Talented, eh?’

‘Yeah . . . whatever.’

‘I’ll come with you if you like. We could hang out at the skatepark.’

‘No, you’re all right. I want to get a picture of that old tree by the duck pond. I’m going to take it from exactly the same angle every day for the next couple of
weeks,’ I add hastily. ‘So I
probably
won’t be walking home for a bit. See you later, yeah?’

‘Hey, Bex,’ says Shezza, shuffling her non-regulation kitten heels. ‘I don’t care what Justin says. I thought your singing was all right.’

The houses opposite the park start getting bigger and bigger. I start feeling smaller and smaller. What am I doing here? The closer I get to Matthew’s house, the harder
it is to find an answer. Mum spent the whole holiday trying to make sure I knew what I was letting myself in for. Dad was like,
Take your mobile, sweetheart, and make sure you call me if
there
’
s a problem
. Natalie reckoned I was out of my tiny little mind if I thought that any bloke would do the same thing for me.

Why couldn’t I keep my stupid mouth shut? I’m rubbish at food tech, I run a mile if I see a needle and I don’t know how to act around sick people. When my nan was ill, I
couldn’t think of anything to say to her, so she kept sending me down to the hospital shop for magazines. But that’s just me, isn’t it? If I say I’m going to do something, I
do it.

OK, this is it. I slip in another piece of gum and start the long climb from the nest of wheelie bins under the oak tree up to the house. The moment I drop the heavy metal knocker onto the front
door, I just want to run away.

Nothing happens, so I knock again. Maybe she’s popped out or something. Except that, according to Matthew, she never leaves the house. I’m just about to do a runner when I hear
chains jangling and a bolt sliding back.

‘Hi, Bex,’ says a little voice.

You don’t know how relieved I am when I look down and see a small round face covered in big blue spots. ‘Hi, Emily.’

She puts her arms around my waist and gives me a shy hug. ‘Mum told me you weren’t coming.’

‘Said I would, didn’t I?’ Emily takes my hand and pulls me into the hall. ‘Where is she?’

‘Her legs are bad. She’ll be down in a minute.’

I didn’t notice before, but there at the top of the stairs is one of those chairlift thingies that Nan always wanted. ‘Wow. That is
so
cool.’

‘It’s not a toy, you know,’ snaps Emily.

‘No, ’course not. What are you up to, anyway?’

‘I’m painting,’ she says. ‘Want to come and see?’

She leads me through a room with books on every side into an even bigger room with a grand piano at one end and sliding doors at the other. ‘Have you heard from Matthew yet?’

Emily shakes her head and slides open the doors. ‘He said he’d phone as soon as he knows. Do you think he’ll get through?’

But as soon as I see what’s on the dining-room table it’s all I can do to stay upright, let alone speak.

‘Do you like it?’ says Emily, proudly.

‘Oh my God. What is that thing?’

Matthew

Twilight wows the judges with her version of ‘Another One Bites the Dust’. Jesamène loves the way she’s ‘taken the Goth thing and run with
it’, Brenda thinks she could be the next Barbra Streisand and Justin can’t believe she’s only sixteen. You might think that fake blood trickling down her chin would be a turn off,
but the moment I saw her again I knew I’d do whatever it took to spend some time with her.

Because if you really want to know, I didn’t give a toss until Twilight arrived on the scene. I just kept thinking of the time Curtis Morgan told Demi Corcoran that ‘all boybands
should be banned’. It was much funnier the way he said it. Curtis was the one who got me into vinyl. We spent our weekends scouring the charity shops for Bowie, Hendrix, Dylan and The Stones.
Maybe it’s a good thing I had to stop hanging out with him, because he’d have had a fit if he found out I was going on
The Tingle Factor
. I’ve got zilch chance of winning,
but now that I know Twilight’s here, I start taking more notice of the other contestants, trying to suss out my chances of making it into the final nine.

The plumber guy who let Brenda ‘play a tune’ on his six-pack looks a pretty safe bet and everyone seems to like Bart, the blond kid who sings a Michael Jackson song about a rat. And
then of course there’s Elizabeth McQueen, the lady with the hideous birthmark on her face. She’s already had about a billion hits on YouTube. No one could quite believe that someone so
ugly could have such a beautiful voice. This time she does something from
Phantom of the Opera
and the whole panel gives her a standing ovation.

That’s why I can’t help feeling slightly relieved when the backing track cuts out during Dubmaster Daffy’s hip-hop version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and the identical
twins from Aberystwyth mess up their steps in the chorus of ‘Dancing Queen’. And that’s why I decide to take Nikki Hardbody’s advice and do something by The Beatles instead
of one of my own songs. She says I’ll have plenty of time for new material once the public gets to know me better.

I’m pretty shaky to start with, but halfway through ‘She Loves You’, I open my eyes and look out into the auditorium. The first person I see is Twilight, yawning and tapping
her long black fingernails in time to the music. It’s just the boost I need. The judges seem to like it too. Jesamène says my hair is amazing, Brenda reckons I could be the next Paul
McCartney and Justin thinks ‘we might just have found ourselves a popstar.’

And now for the moment of truth. The whole theatre falls silent as Nikki Hardbody comes to the front of the stage and flashes her teeth.

‘OK, guys, listen up. This is not one of those so-called talent shows where we deliberately set out to humiliate you. I think you all know what I’m talking about.’

Some of the other contestants mutter knowingly.

‘Now I hope you’ve all remembered your suitcases because, as soon as we finish here, our nine lucky finalists will be going straight into the Celebrity Conservatoire.’

I’ve only brought my school rucksack. I figured it was all I needed.

‘OK, this is how it works. We’re going to get you up here in groups of ten. As soon as you hear your name, I want you to form a straight line at the front of the stage. Don’t
worry, we’ll be right behind you. Now, if one of the judges taps you on the shoulder, you’re to take two steps backwards. If you’re still standing at the front by the time they
get to the end of the line, it means you’ve made it.’

The theatre buzzes with excitement.

‘There’s just one more thing, guys,’ says Nikki. ‘We need to be out of here by five o’clock, so once we’ve done a few reaction shots, could the rejects get
down to the stage door asap? Right, let’s have Candy Ferrell . . . Bart Smedley . . . Missy Goodtime . . . Bux Night . . .’

Bart Smedley is the only one in the first group to make it. He pumps his fist like that tennis player and then tries to get Missy Goodtime to join him in a victory dance. The next lot
don’t take it quite so well. Dubmaster Daffy refuses to move until Justin practically pushes him into the orchestra pit, and Sweet Seventeen are still swearing at the judges when security
arrives.

Even though she was a cast iron certainty, I still get all tingly when Twilight goes through. Unlike some of the others, she doesn’t make a big song and dance about it, but smiles modestly
and trundles her suitcase to the side of the stage. And it’s only when my name is called that I realise what a total disaster it will be if the nearest I ever get to Twilight is watching her
on TV.

By my reckoning there are only two places left. Elizabeth McQueen is sure to take the first one, so as the judges start whispering behind us, I start praying that the final place will be mine.
And I’m feeling pretty optimistic until I get my first whiff of Brenda’s perfume. A moment later, I feel her warm breath on the back of my neck.

Bex

You’ve probably realised that I’m not one of those girlie girls who wets herself every time she sees a spider coming, but that thing on the table is just so freaky,
all I want to do is get out of here.

‘Well,’ says Emily. ‘What do you think?’

‘Perhaps I’d better find the kitchen, yeah?’

‘But you haven’t looked at my paintings yet,’ says Emily. ‘Matthew said he’d rather listen to Country and Western, so I had to do them all.’

It’s covered with childish watercolours of cats and giant hamsters, and big-boobed blondes with wings. ‘That’s, er . . . really good, Emily. Now where’s the
kitchen?’

‘
You
could do one if you like. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t mind.’

I start backing towards the sliding doors, never once taking my eyes off that sicko thing on the table, almost expecting a vampire to jump out. ‘Sorry, I think I’d better . .
.’ And I keep on reversing until someone presses what feels like the barrel of a gun into my back and I’m like,
Oh my God, what’s happening?

‘You want to watch where you’re going,’ says Mrs Layton, untangling her crutch from the back of my school jacket. ‘You could have had me over.’

Emily kills herself laughing.

I don’t know if I’m dying of fright or embarrassment. ‘Where did
you
come from?’

‘Bit jumpy, aren’t we?’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I hope you’re not the sensitive type.’

‘Not normally, no. But when I saw that . . . whatdoyoucallit . . .’ I nod at the thing on the table. ‘. . . I felt a bit kind of . . . you know?’

‘What’s the matter?’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Have you never seen a coffin before?’

Nan’s coffin was dark and shiny with brass knobs on. This one looks like a big cardboard box. ‘Well yeah, but I’ve never seen one in a house. What’s it doing on the
table?’

‘You must know that bit in the funeral service. “In the midst of life we are in death”?’

Emily stops laughing and reaches for her rabbit.

‘Wait a minute,’ I say, trying to remember exactly what Matthew told me about his dad. ‘You haven’t got a body in there, have you?’

It’s the first time I’ve heard Mrs Layton laugh. ‘Hardly. I have no intention of sharing my coffin with anyone. Not even George Clooney.’

‘
Your
coffin? I don’t get it.’

Mrs Layton lowers herself into an armchair. She looks like she hasn’t slept for a week. ‘It’s to remind myself of my own mortality.’

‘You what?’

‘That I’m going to die, you stupid girl.’ She buries her head in her hands. ‘And when the time comes, I’ve booked myself a nice little plot in a wood on the South
Downs.’

‘But why?’ I say.

‘Because I want a carbon neutral burial.’

‘No, I mean why do you keep your coffin on the table like that?’

‘Because I’ve got MS,’ she says, spelling it out like I’m nine years old or something. ‘It doesn’t go away, you know. It’s bound to get me sooner or
later.’

‘Mum, don’t,’ whispers Emily.

Mrs Layton stretches out a wobbly hand and rests it on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true. We need to face facts.’

Emily looks so upset that I can’t stop myself. ‘It’s not actually true, yeah? People with MS have practically the same life expectancy as everyone else. I looked it up on
Wikipedia.’

‘Oh that’s right, I forgot,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Everyone’s an expert now. What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘You know what I’m doing. Matthew asked me to help out until you get over your flare-up.’

‘Well, we don’t need you,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘We can manage perfectly well on our own.’

‘We
do
need her, Mum,’ says Emily firmly. ‘What if you have another accident in the kitchen?’